A Promise Kept
by That Elf Girl
Summary: He made a promise, and she returned it. But in trying to save Kíli's life, she caused his death. Or so Tauriel thinks until she goes back to Erebor to throw herself on the mercy of her unborn child's only kin and discovers that sometimes love outlasts death. But can it remain unchanged by the harsh realities of life? Kíli/Tauriel, Dwarves, Bilbo, Gandalf. Rating changed to M.
1. Chapter 1 - A Promise Made

A/N: This is a work of fanfiction. It is not intended for profit, and I do not claim ownership over the story or any of its characters.

As stated in my profile, I'm not a Tolkien purist and use canon as a jump-off point rather than a fixed point. Translation: If you correct me on a canonical error, that's fine, but I may or may not fix it depending on how it fits within the context of the story. If you're here reading a Kíli/Tauriel fic, I'm going to assume you're not a purist, either. ;)

WARNING & SPOILERS: This is a drama with heavy angst and tension (mixed with a little humor). In this fic, Kíli and Tauriel fall in love and share one magical night together before circumstances separate them, leaving Tauriel with a child Kíli doesn't know he has. Kíli and Tauriel eventually find their way back to each other, more romance and adventure ensue, and there is a happy ending. But be forewarned that they spend a long time apart, missing and longing for each other while they're both faced with their own life challenges, so if this will upset you, use your own discretion when choosing to read this story.

A lovely work of fan art for this fic, _Kiliel - Say Goodbye . . ._ by Alix-Lestrange, can be found on DeviantArt at: 2050/i/2016/138/2/1/kiliel_say_goodbye_by_alix_lestrange-da2zbeg. png

(Please note that I've broken the link above.)

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 1**

 **A Promise Made**

* * *

Years later, in her nightmares, she would wish she could silence the desperate scream that echoed through the tunnels and stairwells of the abandoned fortress of Ravenhill.

 _Her_ scream.

" _Kíli!_ "

She'd glimpsed the dark-haired dwarf prince high on a ledge, single-handedly but capably battling two orcs just moments before. But every moment that passed was one in which the lightning-fast prick of an arrow or thrust of a sword could cut off a life, and she didn't see him now.

" _Tauriel!_ " a voice bellowed in answer from somewhere above her.

 _His_ voice. Distinct to her now from all others.

 _Alive_ , thank the Valar. He was alive. For a split second, she closed her eyes in relief and turned an ear toward his call even though she knew, she _knew_ from centuries of training that you never close your eyes or turn your back on an enemy.

And then the enemy was upon her.

She recognized him as Bolg, son of Azog the Defiler, almost as pale as his sire and, if it were possible, even more hideously ugly. What followed was a blur of motion, but forever after she would revisit in her mind each attack and counterattack, each thrust, parry, and feint, questioning every tactical choice she had made and the outcome had she chosen differently. She was more cunning and agile than the orc warrior, her movements more precise, but he had brute strength and the fire of hatred on his side. Too soon, she was sprawled on the ground, trembling in shock and pain, resigned to the gruesomely scarred face that might very well be the last sight she'd see in this life.

And then a flash like a shooting star before her eyes.

Kíli— _her_ Kíli—resplendent in his armor of gold and mithril, arcing through the air to land on the back of the giant.

Not a shooting star then, but a force of nature in his own right, he was a flurry of grit and determination, and Tauriel watched in awe as he slashed and stabbed at his far larger opponent. A strange mixture of humbleness and pride warmed her heart even as she lay shivering on the cold ground; she'd grown so accustomed to saving him that she hadn't quite realized what a formidable fighter he really was.

But young and reckless still.

It was a youthful mistake, one she had made several times herself at his age . . . but not when fighting Azog's second in command, where there was no room for error. Kíli dodged the great orc's mace but lunged too far forward, so eager on the attack, and in the instant before it happened, she could see the outcome, the unbalanced step that left his sword arm open and vulnerable, the vile creature's block and then the crushing descent of its fist. Stunned by the blow to the head, the dwarf prince could do nothing but hang limply at Bolg's mercy, and Tauriel knew the orc had none to spare.

Fueled by rage, terror, and a growing sense of helplessness, she flung herself at the monster one last time. But she was injured and unarmed and found herself dashed back to the ground as quickly as she'd risen from it. Before she could pick herself up again, the hilt of the giant's mace speared downward, and—

 _O, Valar, NO!_

—pierced Kíli's chest.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. It was as if her own chest were pierced, her own lungs robbed of breath. But the mace, she realized, had sundered something beyond her flesh and bone, something deeper but incorporeal—the very essence that made her Eldar.

She couldn't bear to watch the light leave Kíli's eyes, but she couldn't bear to look away. He shook his head in despair, and as a single tear tracked down his cheek, she understood as clearly as if he had spoken the words in her mind that he cried not just from pain but from the knowledge that he could not keep his promise to her. Their lifetime together was over before it had begun. He would not come back to her, nor could he save her, and she too would die this day, their spirits destined for two separate halls, two separate places of eternal waiting, no reunion for them even in death.

All this passed to her in the space of a heartbeat—her love's last heartbeat. For that was what she could no longer deny he was. _Meleth nín_. Her beloved. But now he would never hear those words on her lips.

 _NO!_

She couldn't let that be.

She lunged forward even as Kíli's eyes slipped closed, even as Bolg wrenched his mace free from her love's body and, with it, a wounded cry from her throat, and cast his victim to the ground.

* * *

She woke dazed and aching but still alive, and as soon as her eyes alighted on Bolg's bloody remains, she remembered where she was and why . . . and what she had to do.

Kíli was so cold and still, the falling snowflakes no longer melting on his skin by the time she dragged herself onto the ledge above. Instinctively, one hand seized his wrist at the pulse point while the other hovered over his mouth, waiting for a breath that didn't come. She smoothed his hair, matted with blood, away from his head wound, partly searching for a sign of life, any sign, partly frantic just to touch him.

" _Meleth nín!_ Please wake, my love—morning star of my sky, breath of my body, anchor of my soul! Please, _please_ , come back to me! _Please!_ " The terms of endearment poured from her in Sindarin, the avowals of love he so deserved to hear, heedless of the irony that even if he _could_ hear he still wouldn't be able to understand her mother tongue.

His face was beginning to take on a bluish tinge, his lips a bruised shade of purple.

"No! No no no no, Kíli!"

She had learned only the most basic healing techniques, enough to provide first aid to a fallen member of her guard, but from someplace as distant and mysterious to her as the origin of starlight, she felt the same warmth, the same power that had risen within her in Laketown arise within her now. A golden, molten warmth. A vast, unstoppable power.

Her cold-stiffened fingers grappled with his mail, seeking the site of the fatal wound.

Found it.

Pressed against it with all her remaining strength, ignoring that the blood no longer flowed.

And once again, the words of power found their way into her and issued forth from her mouth:

" _Menno o nin na hon i eliad annen annin, hon leitho o ngurth. Menno o nin na hon i eliad annen annin, hon leitho o ngurth. Menno o nin na hon i eliad annen annin, hon leitho o ngurth_ . . . "

With each round of the chant, her voice swelled and became fuller, stronger, more determined, the syllables spilling more swiftly from her lips. She felt what remained of her torn essence expand inside her like a tangible thing, buoyant, ascending, until it was inconceivable that her love would not rise along with the prayer she sent up to the heavens.

And so she refused to believe it when he did not. She merely repeated the blessing, with increasing speed and volume, as if she could use it to force the life back into him, her voice cracking now with the strain and the desperation and the grief . . .

Oh, the grief!

Because no matter how many times she recited the prayer, he still did not move. And she wasn't done trying, was yet forming the words with what was left of her hoarse, dry voice when she felt Legolas's unmistakable grip on her shoulders, first urging and finally demanding that she come away, come away now.

"He is gone, Tauriel. Come away. The sun is low, and his family must bury their dead. Please. He is gone. Say good-bye now and come away."

Her oldest friend, who she sometimes thought of as a brother, couldn't meet her eyes for the tears in his own and, for once, didn't disparage her fallen prince by calling him "the dwarf." Which was how she knew _this was real_. Kíli, _her_ Kíli, was gone. And he wasn't coming back.

Only then did her tears flow freely.

As the fight drained out of her, she went limp in Legolas's hands, which tightened on her shoulders and became the only support holding her upright. When he left her, sensing that she needed a moment alone, she sagged like a young tree bowed under a crushing weight.

Cradling Kíli's gloved hand against her face, Tauriel suddenly remembered something and reached inside her bodice for the runestone she'd worn against her own skin, close to her heart. She pressed the talisman into her beloved's palm and closed his fingers around it even as he had done when he gave it to her.

"You kept your promise, _meleth nín_. You came back to me," she whispered. "And now keep this as a promise that I will come back to you."

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading! Reviews are welcome! The next chapter should be ready at the end of the week. And please keep in mind that this is a Kíli/Tauriel fic, so Kíli either isn't actually dead or can't stay dead. ;)


	2. Chapter 2 - A Runestone's Curse

A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed, followed, or favorited after the first chapter! I appreciate it and hope this one won't disappoint. (Just FYI, I do respond to everyone who takes the time to review.)

ETA: Edited to correct a translation error before I get lectured by the Khuzdul experts out there! ;)

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 2**

 **A Runestone's Curse**

* * *

"I've come to pay my respects to those lost in the battle."

Tauriel bowed her head and waited for a reply from the two Iron Hills dwarrow who stood guard at the great Gate of Erebor, their axes crossed to bar the way. Confused and no small bit suspicious, they eyed her and then each other.

She understood their reticence. She was an elf—by tradition, an enemy—asking to walk halls that, until very recently, none but dwarves had walked and observe a ritual that none but dwarves had seen. So it came as no surprise when the seeming elder of the two finally said, "I'm afeared ye'll be needing the family's permission for that."

What to do?

Just then, by some miracle, she spied Óin in conversation with another dwarf she didn't recognize not twenty paces beyond the gate. She remembered him as one of Thorin Oakenshield's company who had stayed behind in Laketown. A skilled medic among his own kind, he had expressed admiration for her after Kíli's healing, calling it "a privilege to witness." Ruefully, she wondered if he'd be as admiring now that her magic had failed, but at the moment he seemed like her best and only chance at gaining entrance to Erebor.

"Master Óin!" she cried, recalling that he was hard of hearing and raising her voice to compensate.

She was relieved when the medic nodded to his companion and made his way toward the gate. "Well, lass," he said with a sad smile once they were face to face, "I expect ye'll be wanting to say yer farewells to the young princes."

She nodded at Óin, he nodded at the guards, and the axes lifted.

* * *

Under any other circumstances, Tauriel would have thrilled at the rare opportunity to glimpse the heart of this most impressive of dwarven kingdoms. But, as it was, she barely noticed the halls inlaid with richly detailed mosaics, the grand stone columns and staircases that seemed to have no end, or the gold leaf and filigree in abundance everywhere. All she was aware of was that they were steadily descending deeper and deeper into the earth—closer and closer to her love.

She heard the music long before they reached its source, a constant hum that seemed to emanate from the rock walls themselves. "What is that sound?" she asked, but Óin did not reply, and she wondered if he could hear it at all. Perhaps her sensitive elven ears were merely picking up the distant drone of mining operations or some shifting in the core of the earth.

But when they turned down a narrow passageway that seemed to lead straight into bright white light, the hum grew in volume and finally exploded all around them as the tunnel opened onto a kind of stage in an underground amphitheater. The benches of the theater glimmered with the light of a thousand burning torches held aloft by a dwarven chorus, and the echo of their song in the cavernous space was at once mournful and strangely comforting.

The stage itself was flanked by enormous stone statues, wonders of ancient craftsmanship that must've been likenesses of the Dwarvish god Aulë. These statues overlooked three funeral biers upon the stage, and mourners circled them with heads bowed, pausing now and then to kneel in contemplation or to clasp a hand or pat a shoulder in support.

"From sunup to sundown we keep watch over them. Then they will join our ancestors in the Halls of Waiting."

The Wood Elf swallowed at Óin's words and their unintended reminder that her beloved's spirit was destined for a journey she could not make.

"Go on, lass," the medic said softly when she hesitated. "He would want ye to be here."

There was no doubt who _he_ referred to. Tauriel looked into Óin's upturned face, etched with grief that could have suppressed his generosity but did not, and tried to convey the depths of her appreciation in a simple thank-you. Then, she steeled herself for what lay ahead.

On the first bier, the golden-haired Prince Fíli was laid out in fine mail, sword gleaming in hand, forever at the ready to fight the good fight into the next age. The elf maiden had exchanged few words with the more serious, soft-spoken prince, their conversation in Laketown mostly confined to updates on Kíli's progress, but it had been apparent that he was utterly devoted to his brother and Kíli to him. She bowed her head respectfully, then moved on to the second bier.

Here was Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain for but a moment, now once and always a king in the songs of his people. Stubborn and prideful though he was, she had to admire his determination. It had won him Erebor, if not for himself, then for generations to come. He was draped in the furs befitting a ruler, the famed Arkenstone, which glowed with an unearthly light, at last in his hands. She had never seen it up close; it was almost blinding. She thought it was right that it be laid to rest with him.

The third bier.

Tauriel drew a long, slow breath, squared her shoulders, and approached the body of her lo—

No. Approached _her love_. She refused to think of him as a _body_ , a lifeless object. And yet . . . when she gazed upon the visage once so full of spark and spirit and found it so empty, it broke her. It broke her to the core.

She'd thought she was prepared for this. That she had said her good-byes and let him go. That this was just a formality. But once more she felt her throat thicken and close and her eyes sting with unshed tears.

"He was a brave lad. Right from birth, ya could throw him a punch, and he'd strike right back. Never shrank from anythin'." The voice at her elbow startled her momentarily, but she was grateful for the distraction. Óin looked at Kíli with avuncular fondness through the faraway glaze of memory. "The Company couldna asked for a bolder warrior or a more faithful friend and kinsman. He woulda followed Thorin and Fíli to the end of the earth. And he did."

"Yes, he did," Tauriel agreed with the ghost of a smile.

"In no small part thanks to ye, lass."

She looked at the dwarf in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Ya saved him."

In Laketown, he must've meant. She shook her head, tasting a sudden bitterness on her tongue. "Yes, I saved him then. But for what? For another death?"

"For a death with honor."

Her emerald eyes widened, and Óin put a tentative hand on her arm. When she didn't flinch, he gave a squeeze and then left her alone with her thoughts.

A death with honor. Was that what Kíli had wanted? It seemed cold comfort compared to the fiery life he had lived. All she could think as she stared at the candles that flickered around him was how unfair it was that they should continue to burn when his own spark had been snuffed out.

Like his brother and uncle, Kíli was dressed in all the finery befitting one of his estate, the royal trappings denied to him in life, although she knew he had never cared for such things. How handsome he looked with his leonine mane framing his face, his lashes full and dark, fanned against his cheeks!

Oh, she knew her own people would never have seen his beauty, but she had. And so much of it had sprung from the liquid brown eyes that would never again sparkle at his own joke, the full mouth that would never again flash a smile of joy at her blush.

In death, all that remained of the Kíli she had known in life was his honor as a warrior, reflected in his ancient armor and the sword he bore across his chest. Absently, she followed the torchlight that ran along its edge, cutting a straight path from hilt to point, through his gloved hands . . .

Wait. _Through his gloved hands_.

Which were both placed atop the sword.

Where was the runestone that she had tucked so carefully into his palm and closed his fist around?

An inexplicable panic rose within her. She didn't know why it should be so important that he was buried with that small, plain object, but it was.

 _Where was that stone?_

Perhaps it had slipped out of his fingers and was pinned beneath the sword! And before she could think better of it, Tauriel had taken Kíli's hand in her own and was feeling along the underside of the blade.

"GET AWAY FROM HIM!"

She froze. As did everyone present, even the dwarven chorus, which faltered, then faded out altogether. Silence filled the theater, louder than any sound.

"What do you think you're doing, _she-elf_? What do you want with my son?"

Even if the dwarrowdam had not identified herself, Tauriel would have known who this was, for she shared with that son the delicate features that were so unusual in a dwarf—the almond-shaped eyes beneath gracefully arched brows, the fine, straight nose, the narrow chin.

Kíli's features.

The only marked difference was her hair, which was . . . red. Not as red as the elf maiden's own, perhaps, but a definite auburn. For some reason, Tauriel hadn't anticipated that.

Nor had she anticipated this verbal assault.

"Why are you here? Have you come to rejoice in our suffering?" Kíli's mother demanded. "Why is she here?" This last a plea directed to an elder who occupied an official position at her side, a dwarf with a forked beard white as fresh snow.

The elder— _Balin_ , Tauriel realized—put a gentle hand on her elbow. "Dís—" He seemed to catch and correct himself. "Princess. This is the captain of King Thranduil's guard, who rescued Prince Kíli on more than one occasion."

" _Rescued_ him? She led him to his death!"

A wavelike murmur passed through the auditorium and hit Tauriel like a physical slap.

The princess broke away from her adviser and advanced on the one she called _she-elf_ as though it were an obscenity. "You think there were no witnesses who lived to tell what happened at Ravenhill? You are wrong!" She flung a hand behind her, toward a tall, grim dwarf with extensive tattoos on his bald head. "Dwalin was there. He saw it all."

She paused a moment to let this sink in, not only with Tauriel but with everyone present.

"Kíli was fighting like a son of Durin, slaying orc after orc. He had the upper hand! He needed no _rescuing_ from the likes of you. But you had to swoop in and play the hero, didn't you?"

Tauriel shook her head and looked to this Dwalin for clarification, but he was no help, returning her gaze with a hard, accusatory stare. Alone and under attack, she fought the urge to defend herself from a charge she didn't understand, to simply be still while she was buffeted by this mother's anger and grief, misdirected though it was.

"Don't you understand, you stupid _elf_? You distracted him in the heat of battle! What kind of fool captain rushes headlong into enemy territory like a thoughtless green youngling, screaming out her location to all and sundry? You walked straight into that orc fiend's hands and let my Kíli pay for your mistake. He would have avenged his brother and saved his uncle, but instead he died saving _you_!"

The dwarrowdam was in tears now, and the agitation in the theater was audible, but for the first time since Kíli's death, Tauriel felt completely numb. In all the hours since she'd watched in horror as her beloved mistakenly opened himself up to Bolg's fatal blow, it had not yet occurred to her that maybe _she_ was the one who had made the tactical error.

"No, Balin, let me go!" Dís protested when hands reached out to hold her back. "She needs to see this." Chin high even as tears streamed down her face, she marched up to the other redhead and thrust something at her. "Do you know what this is?"

Tauriel did.

And she knew how it sounded when it skipped over stone tile and how its rough lines and smooth edges felt beneath her fingertips and how it warmed against the soft skin of her breast.

It was the runestone.

Momentary relief washed over her like a balm, but she held her tongue and said nothing.

"With all your high and mighty Elvish learning, can you not read it?"

Tauriel had to admit that she could not.

" _Innik dê._ It means 'Come back to me.'"

There was a collective gasp at the pronunciation of Khuzdul, the private Dwarvish language, before an elf, but Dís was undeterred.

"My son took this from me as a promise that he would come back to me. And even to the last, he fought to keep his promise. Do you know how I know?" Her voice shook slightly with emotion. "After the battle, I found it still wrapped in his hand!"

Tauriel closed her eyes to block the image of wrapping his hand around it herself. But, to her chagrin, she saw a whole parade of images as the stone passed from her hand to his, from his to hers, and from hers to his again—through the bars of a jail cell, on a lake shore, on a cliff edge in the snow. Images that clouded her vision with unshed tears at the very moment she most needed to be strong.

Dís stood inches away now, and despite her small stature, was fearsome enough that the former captain of Thranduil's guard winced and clenched her fists to stop herself from clenching her daggers. The next words were spit out like a poison.

"My baby couldn't keep his promise because of you. He gave his life for _nothing_ "—she raked her eyes over Tauriel to make it clear this was her assessment of the elf's worth—"and now _this_ means nothing, too!"

The whole theater shuddered as Kíli's mother dashed the runestone to the ground, where it landed with a clatter at the elf maiden's feet. Stricken, Tauriel slowly raised her eyes from the talisman and watched as the other redhead, spent, seemed to collapse in on herself and sank to her knees, her face in her hands.

This, she thought with a sudden rush of pity, was the dwarrowdam who had borne Kíli, the one female in the world who had loved him as much as she herself had. But the second tragedy of his death was that now the love which should have united them in happiness would forever drive them apart in grief.

And then Dís wailed, a sound ripped from her throat, the horrible cry of a wounded animal that made the fine hairs on the back of the elf warrior's neck stand on end.

Instantly, Balin and several other attendants rushed to the princess's side, and this time she didn't resist when they helped her to her feet and, with soothing murmurs, led her off the stage. A last withering look at the she-elf, and she was gone.

In the hush that followed, Tauriel felt a hand on her elbow and started. She relaxed, though imperceptibly, when she saw it was Óin.

"She weren't in her right mind, lass. The princess, she just lost her entire family, and Kíli was her little 'un. Please don't take it to heart."

She swallowed and nodded but didn't answer. Mad with anguish Dís may have been, but sometimes there was truth in madness.

Gradually, the silence of shock gave way to disturbed mumbling and finally the low hum that had originally filled the amphitheater. But she could feel eyes on her, and some of them weren't just wary anymore; they were accusing.

Gingerly, Tauriel picked up the runestone and brushed it off, revealing its odd, angular lettering. As she did, another image, painfully clear, intruded on her memory—the first time she'd laid eyes on the talisman, when Kíli had told her that any but a dwarf who looked upon it would be cursed.

Well, she'd looked upon it, and she'd been cursed.

Kíli's mother had spoken the truth. She knew because she could feel the cold, dead weight of it in her chest. She'd been a fool who let emotion make her careless, inserting herself into a fight that wasn't hers with no plan or preparation, and instead of being a reinforcement, she'd become a liability. Kíli _had_ been holding his own—and admirably—but since she'd saved him three times before, she'd been presumptuous enough to think he would always need saving. And that misjudgment had placed her in the path of danger and forced Kíli to choose between defending his family and defending her, a choice he never should have had to make.

The truth was that in trying to save his life, she had caused his death.

Tauriel closed her eyes. She felt the runestone's curse like a sickness within her. Although she couldn't read its runes, she understood the judgment they spelled out: She hadn't heeded its warning. She should have left both it and him alone. She had trespassed where she did not belong, tried to take something that wasn't hers to take, loved someone she had no right to love. And it had killed him.

 _She_ had killed him.

And now her curse was to live with herself forever.

The excitement of the confrontation had died, and no one was watching her now. She stole close to Kíli's funeral bier, committed every last detail of his face to memory, and closed his fist once more around the runestone. It belonged with him; she didn't.

Like an unseen wind, Tauriel, Daughter of the Forest, brushed past the mourners and fled the stage.

* * *

A/N: I know it's been sad so far, but I promise this story has a happy ending! There's just a lot of darkness before the light. For those who like angsty drama, there will be plenty of that here! Next chap. will be up around this same time next week. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3 - A Fading Hope

A/N: Thanks to all of last chapter's reviewers, followers, and favoriters! (Is "favoriters" a word? Now it is. :)) I'm so grateful for your support!

A note on translations: I try to explain most Sindarin and Khuzdul terms within the context of the story, but when it seems awkward or clumsy to do so, as happened a couple of times in this chapter, I'll include translations at the end.

Guest 3/11: Thanks for your comment! You're right that Dís is hard on Tauriel in the last chapter. There will definitely be some issues for the two of them and Kíli to work through down the road.

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 3**

 **A Fading Hope**

* * *

She was fading. Anyone with eyes could see it. But these days no one was looking.

After the funeral at Erebor, Tauriel had returned to the Mirkwood. King Thranduil hadn't officially pardoned his rebel captain, but when he'd found her cradling Kíli's body at Ravenhill, beside herself with grief, he'd taken pity on her. Even a Grey Elf of the First Age, hardened as he was, esteemed the love between soulmates and understood the ferocious, unstoppable drive to protect it.

By tacit agreement, they never spoke of her banishment again.

However, there was no question of resuming a position of authority as long as her insurrection was fresh in the memory of the king's guard. That wouldn't send the right message, a condition which she understood and accepted as a necessary part of maintaining order in the ranks. It would take at least three or four decades to reestablish her reputation, and in the meantime, she would serve as a rank-and-file soldier.

The former captain seldom saw Thranduil in her new role, but her fellow soldiers were well aware of her conflicted history with him and avoided her because of it. She had keen hearing even for an elf and heard the whispered rumors when they thought she was out of earshot. Public opinion alternately painted her as a spoiled pet of the king who'd fallen out with him over an adolescent power struggle; a social climber who'd grown too ambitious and set her sights on his son; or a wily, cutthroat, dwarf-loving traitor to the throne.

Tauriel didn't much care what they said about her as long as it didn't interfere with her duties, but she did miss the easy camaraderie between herself and the other senior officers, especially Legolas.

The elven prince had abruptly left the Mirkwood with no word or explanation after what everyone was now referring to as the Battle of Five Armies. Tauriel couldn't help but feel she was somehow to blame for his hasty departure—or else why would he not have sought her out in farewell?—and the guilt only chafed at the soreness in her heart whenever she turned to make a comment to her closest friend or set aside some question or detail to share with him later and remembered he was gone. Sometimes she dreamt of running with him through the Mirkwood as it had been in the old days, healthy and verdant, their feet skimming light and free over the forest floor, and woke to a pillow wet with tears.

But these were background aches compared to the ever-present throbbing wound that was her loss of Kíli.

Which, unlike her loss of Legolas, was most certainly her fault.

In the past, she'd relied on the predictable rhythm of her duties, the outlet of physical exertion to distract her from whatever sorrows afflicted her. But now nothing could distract her because everything reminded her of him.

If her unit was fending off spiders in the wood, she saw him as he was when she'd first laid eyes on him, half-mummified in spider webs and yet brazen enough to think he could finish the beasts off with _her_ weapons.

When they patrolled the bridge over the river, there he was diving feet first for a barrel—and landing his mark injured, too.

They escorted prisoners to their cells, and he waited behind the bars for her, winking mischievously.

Not even the moon and stars were innocent in this plot to torment her with memories of her beloved, for where their light was, so was the eager light in his eyes.

That light was gone now.

Her fault.

Tauriel had never thought especially highly of herself, but now she actually despised herself. She was cursed. She _was_ a curse. Everyone she dared to love died—her mother and father, her sister and brother, and now her Kíli. She might as well be dead, too. At least she would do no more damage to others that way.

Likely as not, she was half dead already.

Yes, something had changed in her the day Kíli died. She'd felt her _fëa_ , the immortal essence of the Eldar, tear within her. She could still feel its presence, but it was badly weakened.

In such a state, she tired more easily, healed from injuries more slowly. She ate little and slept even less. Drained of energy, her military prowess suffered, a fact which doubtless contributed to the rumors that she'd been underqualified for the captaincy. But these days she wasn't sure if her fellow officers ignored her willfully or just didn't see her, as translucent as she was becoming. When she glimpsed herself in a mirror, she no longer recognized the wane shadow of the elleth she had been.

Tauriel knew she was fading, but this too brought her no comfort. Some elves, separated from their soulmates, pined until their _fëar_ passed on to Valinor, where they might meet again. But for her and Kíli, there could be no hope of reunion since elves and dwarves spent eternity in different domains. Release from her body would be no release at all but simply another form of torture.

It was another consequence, she thought, of the runestone's curse. A "forever curse," as Kíli had put it, and forever was a long, long time for an elf.

For the first time in her memory, Tauriel wished she weren't immortal. Then maybe she could have died alongside her dwarven prince, the king of her heart. And if she couldn't have been with him in death even then, at least she might have found some sweet, mindless oblivion, a release from all these churning memories and the renewed pain they dredged up every day, day in and day out.

* * *

As a lowly foot soldier, very little of the former captain's time was now her own, but on feast days, all but the royal guard were relieved of their duties. It was on one such day, the feast of Penninor, the last day of the year, that Tauriel used what remained of her strength to climb to her favorite lookout point on the edge of the Mirkwood.

Ethuil, the budding season, was days away, and the trees here at the borderlands, the first to be exposed to the sun and the farthest from the inner darkness of the forest, were beginning to green. The golden valley beyond, newly awakened after the snowmelt, unfurled like a scroll of parchment, a missive stretching east toward Erebor. Though she could not see the Lonely Mountain from here, just knowing she faced in its direction momentarily calmed her restless spirit.

A rustle in the trees behind her.

The warrior elf's hand was instantly on the hilt of her dagger. "Show yourself! Come forth with your arms where I can see them!" she barked.

"My apologies. I should have announced myself."

It was Glaewen, a talented young healer who Tauriel had often entrusted with the care of wounded guards, a bit wide-eyed at the redhead's defensive posture.

Tauriel relaxed and sheathed her dagger. "No, I owe you the apology, _mellon nín_. That was a poor greeting to one I haven't seen in several turns of the stars. How goes it with you, Glaewen? What brings you all the way out here and on Penninor?"

"I'm more concerned for how it goes with you, _muin nín_ , and it's that concern that brings me here. I saw you leave the celebration, and someone said you were headed this way, so I followed. I hoped we might speak in private." The raven-haired, violet-eyed healer in a silver gown of celebration took a tentative step closer. "I've seen you across camp whilst tending the troops and suspected something was amiss, but seeing you here now, face to face . . . "

Her voice took on a soft, familiar tone, and her brow creased with worry. "Tauriel, what ails thee?"

So someone else _had_ looked and seen her . . . diminishing. Confronted with it now, she found she much preferred when no one had noticed. The redhead shrugged a dismissive shoulder. "They work the troops harder now than they did in my day. Or at least harder than I can recall when I had the boundless energy of an elfling."

"But you were the captain of the king's own guard a mere five moons past. No one worked harder than you."

Tauriel averted her eyes. The other elleth spoke the truth, but she was too perceptive for her own good.

And too persistent.

"Please, let me have a look. I promise it won't take long. Perhaps there's a remedy among my herbal plantings that can ease your discomfort." Glaewen's tone lightened, and there was a twinkle in her eye. "You always did say the very trees in my garden must grow their own magic spells. Remember?"

Tauriel couldn't help but give a smile, small and close-lipped though it was. She did remember.

Glaewen's violet eyes filled with compassion. "Please, my dear friend. I can see that you are suffering."

Tauriel sighed wearily, and this time her smile was bittersweet. "I am grateful for your concern, Glaewen, but there is no one in Middle-earth who can help me."

 _The only one who can help me is far, far away in the Halls of Mandos forevermore._

"At least let me try."

* * *

"I am fading, Glaewen."

It was the first time Tauriel had acknowledged it aloud. But having examined the warrior maiden carefully in her own quarters, Glaewen didn't seem surprised, only sorrowful. And confused. "What great misfortune has made you so sick of spirit, _mellon nín_?"

Now that the truth was out, Tauriel saw no reason to hide it. As she readjusted the bodice loosened for the healer's examination, she set her mouth in a grim line. "I have been cursed."

She heard Glaewen's sharp intake of breath. "By whom?"

When Tauriel didn't answer, the healer began to speak rapidly, urgently. "There is magic that can undo even powerful enchantments, perhaps not my own yet, but I can bring you to those who have the skill. Please, Tauriel, we must try to—"

"I have lost my _meleth e-guilen_."

 _I have lost the love of my life._

That, Tauriel knew, should end the discussion. There was no herbal remedy, no magic spell that could bring Kíli back. She'd tried, while kneeling right over his body.

She finished fastening her clothing and looked up at Glaewen. The other elleth wore a dazed expression as if she'd just been struck by a revelation. Tauriel could see the wheels of her mind revolving, revolving, and finally coming to rest at the most logical conclusion. "It was at the Battle of Five, wasn't it?" she said, naming the most bloody event in recent Elvish history.

Tauriel gave a single, brief nod. She could see that her friend was eager to ask who this _meleth e-guilen_ had been since no one had courted her publicly, but the dark-haired maid was too tactful to put it bluntly. Until very lately, Tauriel might well have confided in her, but part of fading seemed to be that her bonds with the living were fraying and she couldn't bring herself to care.

Glaewen, however, cared very much, and her violet eyes filled with tears of compassion. "Oh, Tauriel! Forgive me. I did not know. My very deepest of sympathies!"

The former captain, already resigned to her fate, was more stoic. "I doubt I will see another year in Middle-earth," she said, her tone expressionless. "I simply haven't the will to go on without him."

The healer blanched and gave a gasp of dismay. For a minute, she almost looked as if she might need to sit down. But finally she recovered enough to voice what was on her mind.

"But . . . but what of the babe?" she said.

* * *

 _Durin's Day, T.A. 2941—Laketown_

"Looks like one of 'em firemoons out there tonight."

Tauriel glanced sharply at the dwarf who never took his hat off—Bofur, if she recalled correctly—and then quickly out the nearest window.

The dwarf was right. The moon was the color of fire.

Of blood.

Of her own hair.

It was every bit as impressive as Kíli had described and would probably be more so viewed under an open sky. Practically of their own volition, her eyes flew this time to the injured young dwarf, who had already pushed himself up on his elbows and was straining to see out the window from his makeshift bed on Bard the Bargeman's dining table.

Immediately, his gaze met and held hers. Then, the corners of his mouth turned up, just a bit, in a small but significant smile. "I'd like to get a better look at it . . . wouldn't you?"

"Perhaps. After I've had a better look at that leg," the redhead said pointedly. Maybe she was stalling, but it really was past time to reexamine the Morgul arrow wound.

With a reluctant nod accompanied by a good-humored eye roll, Kíli pulled back the furs that covered his lower half.

Over the past three days, he'd been a surprisingly cooperative patient for a member of the most stubborn race in Arda. He occasionally grumbled, like when she'd tried to feed him soup—"My leg's hurt, not my hand!"—or when she'd insisted on keeping a steadying arm on his own the first time he tried to walk across the room and back. But, for the most part, he respected her judgment and did as she instructed. In truth, even though dwarves were known for their hardiness, she was stunned by his rapid progress as well as by the magnitude of the healing power that lay within herself.

Of course she had participated in the healing of minor injuries before—it was practically a necessity when captaining an active royal guard—but never such a serious wound and never by calling so profoundly on the resources of her _fëa._ She'd actually felt drained for an entire day afterwards. But her reward, it seemed, was that the incantation had not only cleansed the wound of black magic toxins but repaired much of the physical damage to the skin and muscle tissue. Already it had the appearance of a month-old lesion, and Kíli was up and walking on his own several times a day.

Now Tauriel rolled up his trouser leg and examined the bandage wrapped around his stout thigh just above the knee. No sign of fresh blood, pus, or any other seepage. That was good. She began to untie the cloth.

She was as gentle as she could be and so wasn't expecting it when Kíli jumped beneath her touch. Instantly, her fingers stilled, and her eyes found his. But, to her bewilderment, she read no pain there, only a strange kind of intensity, his gaze hot and steady on hers.

Stranger still was the answering heat she felt rising from somewhere deep within herself, as if she were the one with the fever. She wondered if this was how mortals felt when they were ill. The human term _lovesick_ came to mind, and she deliberately pushed it back _out_ of mind. This couldn't be _love._ Even as young as she was, she knew that!

And yet, this unspoken call and answer had repeated itself multiple times over the last three days, and each time it did, the one-time elven captain was forced to reconsider why she had come after this injured dwarf.

She'd told herself and Legolas that it was a matter of principle, a fundamental choice of supporting good over evil. When she'd accepted the captaincy, she'd pledged herself to the Light, vowed to do her part to defend the Eldar from the minions of Morgoth. Whether Thranduil realized it or not, she was ethically bound to help Thorin's company on their quest to retake the Lonely Mountain, and if that meant saving one of them from Morgul poisoning, then so be it.

It was a fine justification, one that brooked no argument. But was it the only reason she'd followed the dwarves to Laketown? Wasn't it because the safety of this dwarf in particular meant something more to her? In the mere twenty-four hours that he'd been locked in a Silvan prison cell, hadn't Kíli—the only one she knew by name when the company escaped the next morning—so awakened her senses with his bold teasing, poetic musings, and infectious smile that she already couldn't bear to picture a world without him?

Hastily, Tauriel re-dressed the wound, and if she was a bit breathless as she reported that it was much improved, her patient didn't comment on it, only gave a single, serious nod. Very soon, she knew, he and the others who had remained with him in Laketown would be on their way to rejoin their company. Which was, she reminded herself, the goal—a favorable outcome to be pleased about.

And she? She would doubtless return alone to the Mirkwood, which now seemed a gloomier place than ever before. Of course she could not go back to the palace yet. But she'd seen several of these "banishments" in her lifetime, and they were all eventually lifted, the equivalent of sending a disobedient young elfling to a corner to think about what she'd done. In fifty years' time, Thranduil would almost certainly permit her return, albeit grudgingly. The question was whether she _wanted_ to return.

In the meantime, she put on a good front for the dwarves and told them nothing of her exile. It was clear that they felt indebted to her as it was; there was no reason to make them feel guilty as well. Kíli especially did not need such a burden while he was recovering.

"So," that young patient said, his eyes never leaving hers as he rolled down his trouser leg, "are you giving me leave to go see the firemoon, then?"

She hesitated.

"You could come with me . . . to make sure I follow your orders." The brazen wink he added to his invitation couldn't disguise the vulnerability in his hopeful tone.

The trouble was it unnerved her to think of him outside alone in his condition, but it unnerved her just as much to think of herself alone _with_ him. It wasn't that she didn't trust him; she didn't trust herself. Not with these brand new feelings that suddenly held such sway over her and impelled her to do reckless things like desert her post in the Woodland Realm to track a ragtag company of dwarves to this miserable human town.

"You two go on. I'll keep watch," Bofur offered, oblivious to her discomfort.

"You are sure?" Her eyes slid toward the bed where Fíli had finally been convinced to join Óin in slumber after a nearly seventy-two-hour vigil at his brother's side. He snored softly, while Óin rattled and wheezed like a dwarven bellows. Bard had gone out with a black arrow three nights prior and been imprisoned on trumped-up charges, leaving Tauriel and the dwarves as sole defenders of his home and children.

"If I see or hear anythin' suspicious, I'll wake 'em faster than a Rhosgobel rabbit," Bofur promised with a nod toward his sleeping friends and a tip of his hat to the elf maiden.

"He will, too. Bofur can move. You should see him run from a bee in his ale," Kíli winked at the older dwarf.

"Aw, now, laddie, that ain't fair! You woulda run, too, if you'd near swallowed a stinger as big as that!"

"He was out the door of the Prancing Pony and halfway back to Ered Luin before he realized the bee wasn't after him." Kíli flashed a teasing grin at his friend as he pulled on his boots, with only a slight wince when he raised his right leg.

"That sounds like quite a tale," Tauriel remarked, eyebrows raised.

"Aye, it is," Kíli agreed. Then, turning his warm if somewhat gloating grin on her, he said, "I'll tell you the rest as we walk."

* * *

mellon nín _-_ my friend _  
_

muin nín _-_ my dear _  
_

A/N: Ok, guys, next chapter is going to be heaps of delicious Kiliel, so get ready! ;)


	4. Chapter 4 - A Firemoon's Omen

A/N: All you new followers and favoriters since the last update—thanks for the love! :) Commenters, even though I always respond to you guys individually, I just want to thank you again for sharing your thoughts.

WARNING: Rating changed to M for a few instances of coarse language.

Chantellecwitao: Thanks for your comment! Since this is a Kiliel fic, I have no problem letting you know upfront that Kili and Tauriel will be together in the end. Before the end even! :) But they'll have a journey to get there...

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 4**

 **A Firemoon's Omen**

* * *

Kíli _did_ tell her the rest of Bofur's tale, as well as several others as they lay on their backs on the shore of the Long Lake while the waves lapped gently at their feet, gazing up at the firemoon, which _was_ even more impressive under a wide-open, starry sky.

These were only the latest of numerous tales he'd told her over the past few days—tales of wizards and skinchangers, mountain trolls and goblins, flaming pine cones and giant eagles. Tales that, for all the six hundred-odd years she'd walked the earth before him, made her feel woefully inexperienced, a little envious, and . . . yes . . . _admiring_ of this youthful adventurer.

What was more, despite the brass and swagger with which he carried himself, Kíli recounted these stories with uncharacteristic humility, describing as a joint effort victories that, reading between the lines, owed a great deal to his own bravery, strength, and skill.

Clearly, Tauriel had underestimated this young dwarf. There was much more to him than met the eye. He wasn't on this quest for greed, glory, or even just the thrill of it but for honor, justice, and loyalty, especially loyalty to family.

His love for his uncle, brother, and cousins, as well as for the mother he'd left behind in Ered Luin, was woven into every story he told, an ancestral tapestry as inseparable from the telling as he was from them. It was for them that he wanted to reclaim Erebor, their historic homeland, as much as, if not more than, for himself.

Listening to him talk about his kin with such affection, an old wound began to ache within her, a wound inflicted the day she'd lost her own family in an orcish massacre. A wound of the heart, the mind, and the spirit.

She'd been just an elfling then and for centuries afterward had yearned for the kind of family Kíli had. She'd been well provided for by King Thranduil, yes. But what he'd given her wasn't what Kíli described. It wasn't love. These past two hundred years or so, she thought she'd made peace with the lack of it, but, by the Valar, it turned out she still yearned for it as much as ever!

"Are you all right?"

Kíli must've sensed the growing pain beneath her stoic elven mask because he'd interrupted his own story and was blinking at her with concern.

"Yes. Fine." Tauriel blinked a few times herself, then covered for her lapse in control by asking something she'd been wondering about.

She knew that Fíli was Kíli's brother and that Óin was among his distant cousins. But which member of the company was Kíli's uncle? It was obvious that the young dwarf idolized this brother of his mother, who had raised him and Fíli after their father's untimely death. He referenced the older dwarrow like a touchstone constantly, quoted him often, and apparently considered him his inspiration for joining the quest. But he'd never named this beloved father figure, always calling him simply "Uncle."

The redhead's question was met with a shocked stare, then an incredulous smile, and finally a snort of self-derision, as if Kíli couldn't believe he'd left out the most important part of the story. "Thorin!" he burst out, running a hand through his hair as he gave a little shake of his head.

Tauriel's forest-green eyes widened, and her head snapped toward him. "Thorin _Oakenshield_?" The proud, stubborn rightful king of Erebor? But Kíli had said his uncle had no children. That he and Fíli were his sister-sons. That would mean . . .

" . . . You are second in line to the throne," she said in a voice hushed with awe.

The young prince made a _pffft_ sound that momentarily blew the wayward strands of dark hair off his forehead. "Thank Mahal not first! Uncle and Fíli can keep the throne. I don't want it. All that mind-numbing legislation to read and stuffy ambassadors to entertain . . . " He waved a hand dismissively. "That's not for me. I'd rather train the guard, as you do."

And most likely he would. He'd be good at it, too. But the difference between him and her was that even if he wasn't, he'd be given some position of authority anyway because . . .

"You're still a prince of Erebor."

He snorted again. "I'm prince of nothing."

"It is in your blood."

It would always be in his blood. By birth, he was as far above her own station as Legolas was. And she knew a thing or two about the outcome of fraternizing with those above her station.

"Tauriel." Kíli rolled onto his side to face her and propped himself on an elbow, chin resting in his large hand. "If anything's in my blood, it's soot."

She frowned, not understanding.

"I grew up on top of a dirty coal mine in Ered Luin. We wore a layer of soot over our clothes at all times; we could never wash the smell of it out of our hair. Erebor, in case you don't know, is a gold mine. It's also ten miles in diameter; Thorin's Hall in Ered Luin had a marketplace maybe a quarter the size of Laketown with a handful of small businesses and a few modest craft halls. Our 'royal suite,' if you can call it that, had just five rooms—one bedchamber for Fíli and me, one for our mother, one for our uncle, a kitchen, and a common room—and that was considered generous. We hunted and fished for our supper, guarded human caravans for pocket change, and smithed a little when Uncle had the time to supervise us. Not a day went by that we didn't live by our wits and the hard labor of our hands. Call me 'prince' if you will, but I'm sure you've lived a life of greater luxury than I've ever known."

The redhead stared at him, dumbfounded. Never had she imagined that any immediate relation of the lordly Thorin, much less Thorin himself, would've been reduced to such humble circumstances.

Then something else occurred to her, and a wry smile worked its way across her face. She rolled toward the exiled dwarven prince and propped herself on an elbow as well, mirroring him. "I am a Silvan Elf. Do you know what that means?"

Kíli shrugged. "You're from the Woodland Realm."

"Yes. But do you know how Silvan Elves are different from other sorts of Eldar?"

Another shrug. "I thought elves were elves."

Tauriel stifled a chuckle. "No. There are many different kinds of elves."

"There are different kinds of dwarves, too!" He sounded mildly offended that she might think otherwise.

"I know. But the seven dwarven clans are all respectable, are they not?"

"Mmm . . . more or less."

"Not so for all the kindreds of the Eldar." She paused to think of an analogy he could grasp. "Remember the story you told me about your visit to Rivendell? The Eldar you met there were Noldor. You might think of them as the House of Durin. And then there are the Nandor, the Silvan Elves of the Woodland Realm. You might think of us as the commoners."

Kíli answered her smile with one of his own to show he understood but added a soft snort. "You could never be common."

Her breath caught in her throat. No, he didn't think she was common.

 _He thought she walked in starlight in another world._

And there it was again. That same call and answer. The beckoning heat of his gaze and the heat that rose within her to meet it.

It was the one subject they hadn't discussed in three days, that fevered snatch of conversation in which Kíli, half delirious, had asked if she could've loved him.

Not even asked, really. Breathed like a prayer, hesitant yet brimming with hope.

 _And half delerious._

The moment had seemed unreal, and Tauriel had been too astonished to do anything but take his hand as he slipped back into unconsciousness.

No one had ever said such things to her before. No one had seen her in that light. Not even Legolas. They saw her as a brave fighter, a clever tactical strategist, an esteemed leader. Seldom as someone of feminine grace or beauty and never as someone untouchable. Why, Kíli spoke of her the way she spoke of the Valar—with reverence and awe!

The truth was whatever he'd thought he felt while teetering between life and death couldn't have been real. He'd said himself he thought he was in a dream when he spoke. He couldn't really believe such things, want such things. Could he? No doubt he'd never raised the subject because he was embarrassed by his semi-conscious raving.

Maybe he'd forgotten it altogether. Or hoped that she would forget.

She would never forget. For that moment, she had truly felt like she was walking among the stars.

"A copper for your thoughts?"

The elf maid startled a bit as she realized she'd withdrawn into her mind, and Kíli was staring at her expectantly. His dark eyes glinted in the moonlight, and she thought of the fabled dark tunnels of Erebor glinting with gold.

That same heat.

And the answering heat within her reaching toward it, shaky, needy.

Abruptly, Tauriel broke the dwarf's gaze, muttered an apology, flipped onto her back, and stared straight up at the sky. She heard him chuckle and settle down beside her again.

A moment later, his shoulder grazed hers, and it was like the spark of flint on steel. She jerked away, an automatic reaction, then prayed he wouldn't comment on the state of her nerves.

He didn't.

They were quiet for a time, and the silhouette of the Lonely Mountain rose over the lake like a throne in the star-studded sky, the firemoon its crown jewel, a ruby among diamonds.

"There's an old proverb about this moon. They say it lights a fire in the blood—for death or for life." She could practically hear him smile in the dark, hands clasped behind his head, and then she _did_ hear him chuckle softly. "But that's a poor translation. It sounds more poetic in Khuzdul."

"What does it mean?" she wondered.

"Well, the more direct way to put it would be that it stirs a body to fighting or fu—" He broke off with some embarrassment. "Well, that's maybe putting it a little _too_ directly."

"So which does it stir _you_ to do—fight or fuck?" When he gaped at her, she smirked right back. "My elven ears aren't as sensitive as you seem to think."

He gave an incredulous bark of a laugh and shook his head. "I was _trying_ to be a gentleman."

"You forget that I am captain of an all-male guard."

"I didn't forget. But I just thought . . . well . . . that _elves_ . . . "

"Don't swear . . . or don't fuck?" Now she was just goading him, relishing her chance to turn the tables on him, tease that he was.

After a few sputtered attempts at an answer, he gave up. "I'm . . . going to leave that one alone." Then he sobered and gave her a searching look. "You are a wonder, Tauriel of the Mirkwood. You took me by surprise the moment I met you, and you haven't stopped surprising me since."

But it was _he_ who surprised _her_ the next moment when he reached up and tucked a lock of red hair behind her ear, his callused palm lingering on the smooth curve of her cheek.

She shivered even though she wasn't cold. How was it that neither summer sun nor winter snow could easily alter her body temperature, but a dwarrow's rough hand could do so instantly? What magic of their own did dwarves have? Legolas touched her with some frequency in greeting or parting, and she never reacted in this way.

"I wish you could see your eyes right now," Kíli said, his voice husky and a little slurred, as if he were intoxicated by the magic of the moment. "The way the moonlight catches them, they shine like emeralds. More brilliant than all the treasures of Erebor."

"You've never _seen_ all the treasures of Erebor," she teased to conceal her discomfort at the extravagant compliment, then immediately regretted her misstep when he stiffened and turned away.

The seconds stretched into minutes. Without his touch, she felt cold after all.

"This day was Durin's Day."

He said it so softly that, even with her sensitive elven hearing, she might've missed it between the rippling of the lake and the sigh of the night breeze. But her ears were always attuned to his voice now, its distinctive, rich baritone.

"By now, our mission has either succeeded"—he swallowed audibly—"or not."

She noticed he couldn't bring himself to say "failed." Failure wasn't in his vocabulary. She kept her tone light and hopeful. "Well, we haven't seen a dragon."

"Yet." Suddenly, he sucked in his breath and asked, "What do the elves say of firemoons?"

She hesitated. Cleared her throat. "I don't know what the other Eldar say, but to Wood Elves, it is a 'blood eclipse,'" she said reluctantly. Only when he waited for her to say more did she continue. "It is an omen."

"For good or for ill?"

"It depends on the nature of the events taking place. If battle, then ill. If marriage, birth, or any other celebration, then good."

" _Elves._ Bilbo was right about you! Can't get a straight answer," the young dwarf muttered without malice.

"At least you won't get a dishonest one."

"True enough."

Silence.

And then, "We should've been there when the sun set, Fíli and I. We should've walked through that door and into the halls of our ancestors right beside Uncle." His voice was thick and cracked slightly when he mentioned Thorin.

Without thinking, Tauriel reached out for the very contact she'd been trying to avoid and twined her fingers through his, which immediately tightened around hers.

"We were raised on tales of Erebor, you know. Its splendor and might. 'Again, Uncle,' we would say. 'Tell us again how you feasted on wild boar and venison for thirty days straight in the Great Chamber of Thrór. Tell us how you went sledding down hills of gold piled up to the ceiling in the Great Hall of Thráin.' And Uncle would say, 'I'll tell you. But one day when we return, you two will walk beside me through the great Gate of Erebor, one on my right and one on my left, and see it for yourself.'"

Her keen eyes didn't miss the surreptitious swipe at his cheek when he thought she wasn't watching.

"And now we're not there to see it at all."

She squeezed his hand in hers. "You _will_ be. The mountain endures. And you and your brother will walk through those gates beside your uncle every day for the rest of your lives."

She didn't have his way with words and knew anything she said would be inadequate, so she was thankful when he squeezed in return. "Have you ever had something like that, that you dreamed all your life of seeing?"

Silence again. But not really silence because it teemed with the sounds of the night—the whispering wind, the lapping tide, the chirping of late-season frogs.

"The whole world."

The raw honesty of her answer had him jerking his head around to stare at her in disbelief.

Turning her own head to look him full in the face, she said, "In six hundred twenty-six years, this is the farthest I've been from home."

She saw awareness dawn on him and felt a subtle shift between them, but after a moment, he smiled more tenderly than she'd ever seen and said, "Maybe someday you will come and see Erebor. It's not so far from the Mirkwood, is it?"

"No," she replied with equal tenderness, remembering a different conversation three nights ago. "I'm not so far away from you at all."

At that, he gave her another wondering look, and then his smile widened. He opened his mouth to say something, but by now her hand was burning in his, and she detached herself on the pretense of smoothing her windblown hair out of her eyes.

 _What was she doing, encouraging him like that?_

For him, this was likely a harmless dalliance. But the Eldar didn't have "harmless" dalliances. Or any dalliances, for that matter. They had courting. And betrothal. And marriage. That was all.

Whatever was going on between the two of them, it was foolishness. He was a dwarf, and she was an elf; he was a prince, and she was a commoner; he was mortal, and she was immortal. There could be no future for them.

She could still feel the heat of his intense scrutiny. "You're missing the firemoon," she said a little breathlessly, in an attempt to distract him.

It didn't work. "I'm not missing anything." His hand cupped her jaw again and this time turned her face toward his.

"I thought you wanted to get a good view of it."

"I like this view better. And I find that I don't just want to look." He caressed the side of her face with his thumb, and that one simple touch slid through her veins like liquid silver.

He was so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her lips. "Tauriel of the Mirkwood, may I kiss you?"

* * *

A/N: Up next—another great big serving of Kiliel! :)


	5. Chapter 5 - A Dream Lived

A/N: Hi, new reviewers, followers, and favoriters! Thank you for your vote of confidence! :)

WARNING: This chapter is rated M for "non-explicit suggestive adult themes" and has been edited in keeping with guidelines. In plain terms, it contains some sensuality but no lemons. **If you want lemons, you can read the full, unedited version of this chapter on AO3 (archiveofourown .org). My username there is That_Elf_Girl.** (Of course I think the full version is better, but I could be a little biased. ;))

ETA: After a couple of remarks about the downbeat ending of this chapter, I decided to rewrite the last few paragraphs because I felt that Tauriel's words came across more harshly than intended. I think the ending, which now shifts back to her POV, allows for a better understanding of why she says what she does and leaves the two of them on a more hopeful note.

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 5**

 **A Dream Lived**

* * *

"Tauriel of the Mirkwood, may I kiss you?"

She blinked slowly, trying to comprehend that Kíli had just asked her for a pledge of affection that signified betrothal.

 _For Wood Elves._

She didn't know what it signified for dwarves, but oh, how she wanted it anyway! Not just in some fever dream musing of his but here and now.

Unless she'd been sucked into that dream _with_ him. In which case she wanted this to prove to herself that it was no dream.

She wanted him to bridge that final distance and know what it would be like to feel those full, dusky lips on hers. And the scratch—or caress? or tickle?—of his facial hair on her cheek.

Wordlessly, she nodded her ascent.

 _Fire._ It felt like fire.

The heat of his gaze became a slow-burning flame on his lips, searing across her own mouth, and she thought of how he'd said the stars were remote and cold. But she knew differently; they burned white-hot.

And—oh, yes—she was awake. She was awake _all over_.

He pulled back just long enough for her to see his eyes glow like embers in the moonlight. Just long enough for him to run a thumb over her lower lip, swollen now from his kiss, and breathe, "Ah, Tauriel . . . " And her name sounded so beautiful on his tongue that it made her ache in the same place as did the wild, sweet music of Mereth Nuin Giliath.

His mouth found hers again, and somehow her hand found the back of his head and pressed him to her, fingers tangling in his thick mane and pulling a shuddery sound from him, which delighted her enough to repeat the same action.

The callused hand that had cupped her face slid down to her waist and tightened till she was flush against him. The other hand was on her neck, and then his lips replaced it, leaving a trail of heat lightning down to her collarbone and then across it.

It _prickled_ —the stubble on his face, so foreign to those of her kind. Like hundreds of tiny dagger points skimming over her, reddening her skin.

"Oh, you're _so_ . . . " he sighed, the rest of his sentence lost in the crook of her neck, and she wasn't even sure it was in Common. He rolled slightly, and suddenly he was above her, his superior weight despite the height difference pinning her beneath him.

She'd heard somewhere that dwarves were more hot-blooded than other races; that was more than true. Being inside his arms felt like being in a furnace, and she was melting, losing the borders of her own shape as he molded her to him.

So it took a moment to come back to herself when he reared up, breathing hard, and ran a hand through his hair, uttering a harsh word she didn't recognize. "Tauriel, forgive me," he panted, but she was too dazed at first to understand that he wasn't apologizing for stopping this heady encounter but for starting it.

Self-doubt made her voice small. "Am I not . . . ? Do you . . . not want . . . ?"

"Oh, I _want_ ," he nearly growled, punctuated by a humorless bark of laughter. "And you most certainly _are_."

She laid a hand on the arm he now used to brace himself as he sat beside her. "Then there is nothing to forgive."

"Aye, there is." He was still breathing heavily, his other arm resting on his bent knee. Finally, he looked down at her, and the fierceness of lust dissolved into pure tenderness. He ran his fingertips down one flawless cheek. "In another time and place, I would court you properly. But I can make you no promises. My leg is well enough, which is thanks to you. In the morning we leave for the mountain." His tone darkened. "And I don't know what we will find there or if we will return."

She understood what he was saying but also what he wasn't and maybe hadn't even thought ahead to. After tonight, nothing would be the same. Tomorrow, he and his kin would either reclaim Erebor from a fire-breathing dragon or die trying. And if they lived, he would become a prince of his realm, with all the restrictions and responsibilities that entailed. They weren't in a dream, but it might as well have been for all the meaning it would have in the morning.

Even in her relative innocence, Tauriel knew of physical union, the joining of male and female that commenced marriage among the Eldar. And although she'd never experienced it, she instinctively knew the stirrings she'd felt when Kíli kissed her would've carried them into that maelstrom if they hadn't stopped when they did.

She also knew that she hadn't wanted to stop. She had _wanted_ to join with him, to bind her immortal _fëa_ to his life. By Elvish custom, that would have made them husband and wife.

But Kíli wasn't an elf, and she knew nothing about Dwarvish courtship or wedding traditions. As dwarves had no immortal _fëa_ , it stood to reason that physical union would not bind them in the same way.

And yet, fool though she probably was, she didn't care. She wanted him. Beyond all reason and beyond all doubt. Kíli, who made her feel as if she walked among the stars. As if she was _his_ star, a light only visible to him as his was to her. If this was her only chance to bask in that light, then tradition be damned, she would seize it! And if he had no immortal spirit for her to bind to, maybe it was better this way. She couldn't lose the one she loved if she didn't have to truly love him.

Sitting up next to him, she laid a hand along his strong jaw and said, "I ask for no promises. Just the night that is here and now before us."

His breath hitched, and his eyes grew wide and dark. "Tauriel . . . I wouldn't dishonor you in such a way."

"It is no dishonor to a Wood Elf," she said truthfully. "It is indeed a great honor to join with another as one."

She was taken aback when he frowned. "What of your friend, the blond Mirkwood . . . _prince_?" It seemed he'd intended to call that prince something less princely and remembered himself at the last second.

"Legolas? No. I am not so joined with Legolas." The mere thought made her laugh lightly as it would not have just days ago. "There was a time when the prospect was not altogether unthinkable to me, but it is now. He is, as you said, a friend. And a friend alone."

Kíli nodded once, very slowly, then dipped a hand into her long, silken hair and sifted it through his fingers like gem dust. When he lifted his eyes to hers, he said, "Are you sure this is what you want?"

"As sure as these same stars shine above us each night."

It was all the permission he needed. With a throaty sound of both relief and longing, he gathered her in his arms, and together, they entered his dream.

* * *

Awhile later, shaky but replete, they sat still entwined, her head on his shoulder as her hands smoothed over his sweat-slicked back, her hair falling around them like a veil, through which his fingers absently combed. His lips were at her ear, murmuring sentiments in his native tongue.

 _"Amrâlimê, sakhmi astî ni adâlimê, ra khidu, asti kusut."_

From the moment Tauriel had taken those Mirkwood spiders and his own heart by storm till the moment she'd said she was as sure as the stars shone above every night, Kíli hadn't truly believed she could love him.

He still didn't know if she did. She'd said she was content with just tonight, so maybe she didn't. She was no dwarrowdam, that was a certainty!

A dam would only give herself in body once she was promised and that mostly when the Longbeards' sometimes isolated, nomadic lifestyle made it difficult to have a marriage ceremony performed within a reasonable time. Even then the practice was frowned upon, and it was completely out of the question for someone of Kíli's class. _Durin's beard!_ Thorin would have his hide if he knew what had taken place here tonight!

But he couldn't hold an elf to Dwarvish standards. It wouldn't be fair to her.

Besides, as he'd said, he had no idea what the future held for him. By this time tomorrow, he might be dead, and, if not, he and Fíli wouldn't leave his uncle's side until Erebor was secured and reestablished as the foremost dwarven kingdom in Middle-earth. How could he ask her to wait for him indefinitely?

How could he not?

Aye, he'd told her he could give her just this one night, but he'd likely been fooling himself even before he held her in his arms and learned the sweetness of her embrace. And now that he'd lost himself in the forest of her charms and mysteries and utter delights, he never wanted to find his way out.

He knew what he felt, and he wasn't afraid. In his heart, he was promised to her. And if the princely duties that had always seemed too far off on the horizon were now truly approaching, well, thank Mahal he wasn't the crown prince! Fíli would carry on the line if Thorin did not, leaving himself free to marry who he wished and have a mountainful of half-dwarflings or half-elflings or—

Could an elf even carry and birth his children?

—Or maybe no children at all! It wouldn't matter. They would have each other and plenty of nephews to help raise.

Maybe she didn't love him yet. Mahal knew she'd had to save him so many times she probably thought him a helpless youngling, not someone who could care for and protect her as her husband. As impressed as he was by her preternatural skill with bow and blade, he was ashamed that he'd given her no reason thus far to take the same pride in him.

But he could rectify that! He would prove himself to her if only she gave him the chance. It was all he needed—just one chance—and he would show her that he could not only fight his own battles but defend her, as well! That he was worthy to seek her hand.

He breathed in the fragrance of her hair, cool and green and a bit sandy from lying on the beach, and with his voice muffled in those abundant ruby tresses, murmured, "I promise you now, no matter what happens, I will come back to you."

He felt her smile against his shoulder. "What are you saying to me? In Common, please."

He hadn't realized he still spoke in Khuzdul. He hoped she felt his answering smile against her delicate, pointed ear and drew breath to speak when suddenly she stiffened in his arms.

"Someone is coming."

"What? Where?"

"Boatmen. On the lake."

Seconds later, Kíli tensed as he too heard the crew of men shouting instructions to one another as they came into port.

Wordlessly, they sprang apart, the dwarf to tie his trousers and throw his tunic over his head and the elf to fasten her bodice and roll down her skirts. Within minutes, they looked a bit mussed but no worse for wear, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened on a casual stroll to see a firemoon.

"You are right that your leg is well enough to travel now. We should return quickly so you can get a good night's rest before your journey," Tauriel said in her no-nonsense tone before she turned away.

"Tauriel," he called from behind her. "Wait."

He couldn't let her just walk away from him. Once they were back in Bard's home, they wouldn't be alone again before he left in the morning. If he was going to say something, it had to be now.

* * *

She stopped mid-step, straightened her shoulders, and schooled herself not to show what she was feeling too plainly on her face. Otherwise, he might make her a promise he couldn't keep, and that would be worse than if he made her none at all.

"When all this is over, I—" He stopped short and tried again. "When we leave on the morrow, you—" And a third time. "I know I said I could give you no promises—"

"Then don't." Suppressed emotion gave her tone more bite than she'd intended, and when the light in his eyes dimmed, she said more gently, "You've already given me so much these past three days."

"And I would give you more," he said fervently. "But I—"

"But you are right not to give it." She forced herself to use her captain's voice, firm and decisive. "We must let what we've had be enough."

At first, it seemed he might argue. But then he swallowed hard and gave a single, slow nod. Limping lightly, he followed her toward the pier.

She tried not to be disappointed that he said no more; she had no right to be. After all, she was the one who'd refused to accept any promises. And by all that was sound and rational, she knew he shouldn't make any.

But the next morning, after the dragon fire, after they'd nearly lost each other among the rubble and chaos and the heaps of burning bodies, after sound and rational had ceased to have a meaning, he would stand on this same shore amidst the charred remains of Laketown and make her a promise anyway. And this time she wouldn't refuse.

* * *

Mereth Nuin Giliath—The Feast of Starlight

Amrâlimê, sakhmi astî ni adâlimê, ra khidu, asti kusut—My love, I saw you in my dreams, and now, you are real

A/N: If you're a Khuzdul expert and see an error in my translation, feel free to let me know since I am _not_ a Khuzdul expert, and the Dwarrow Scholar's (dwarrowscholar .wordpress .com) nifty translator tool isn't compatible with my software. Please note that in the above phrase, Kíli addresses Tauriel in second person formal instead of familiar because the Dwarrow Scholar indicates that second person formal is considered poetic and, when used between intimates, can be an expression of the speaker's high esteem for the listener. I thought it would be sweet of Kíli and very like him to address Tauriel in this poetic way after making love to her for the first time, and, in fact, he spontaneously aims to rhyme the line, too.

Up next—we're back to the future, and it's full steam ahead to a living, breathing Kíli! :D


	6. Chapter 6 - A City Changed

A/N: I noticed a few new followers and favoriters since last time—thanks so much for your support! And reviewers—I really appreciate your opinions, without which I wouldn't have been able to revise a few things in the last chapter! Most notably, a couple of readers weren't crazy about the ending of Chap. 5, which confirmed my initial worry that Tauriel would come across as too harsh in that scene. I've since changed the ending to hopefully allow for a better understanding of why she says what she does as well as to leave the characters on a more hopeful note. If you read Chap. 5 before last Saturday afternoon, you probably read the original ending, so please take a minute to check out the revised ending when you have a chance.

Guest 4/3: Thanks for your comment! Kíli and Dís are definitely going to clash on the subject of Tauriel, and all three of them will have issues to work out down the road.

ETA: Edited to clarify a reference back to Chap. 4. Edited again to expand the scene between Tauriel and Glaewen and to clarify Tauriel's reasons for wanting to raise her baby in Erebor.

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 6**

 **A City Changed**

* * *

"What are you doing?"

Tauriel glanced up and saw Glaewen standing in the doorway of her cramped regulation military quarters. "I am leaving," she replied, as if the rucksack, saddlebag, and personal belongings scattered about her did not speak for themselves.

A fortnight had passed since the healer had told her that she was with child, and Tauriel could feel herself growing stronger every day, the babe's blossoming essence reawakening her will to live. When she'd heard the news, she was stunned, having assumed the early signs—the weariness, the pallor, the lack of appetite—were simply part of fading. But as soon as she'd learned of the babe's existence, she had wanted to protect the little one with a fierceness she'd never felt before even in the heat of battle.

And that meant living.

This child, _Kíli's_ child, was all she had left of her _meleth_ , her beloved. All she had left of that one magical night, when an arch little aside about the life-giving power of a firemoon in Dwarvish folklore had turned out to be wondrously, prophetically true, and the celestial body had sparked life in her own. Against all odds, that spark had flickered within her throughout the brutal punishment of her body in battle and the torture of her spirit in grief, and now she would love, cherish, and protect that fragile gift with every breath she took, to the very last.

Perhaps dwarves couldn't reincarnate as elves could, but the promise of this new life was as close to a rebirth as she could hope. And not only Kíli's but her own, as well, when she had been so near death. Day by day, as she felt the quickening within her, it brought color back to her cheeks, vigor back to her limbs, and joy back to her heart. It was remarkable, actually, how her body could nourish the babe's body even as the babe's spirit nourished her spirit.

The curse, Tauriel thought, was lifted. She had paid dearly for her mistake, but now she could begin anew.

She and the child. Together.

But not here. Not in the Mirkwood.

Now was the time to go. It would be impossible to conceal the burgeoning life within her for much longer. Five moons had passed since the firemoon, when the babe was conceived, and if she was like most elleth, her condition would become apparent with the passing of another.

"He may yet come back."

Tauriel startled and looked at her friend sharply. "What do you mean?"

Glaewen rushed forward then, hands clasped, beseeching. "Oh, Tauriel, did he really fall in the Battle of Five? Or is it just that he did not return? If you are with child, his _fëa_ must be bound to yours. He _must_ eventually come back! When the king hears of the babe, he will forgive both of you and be reconciled, I'm sure of it!"

The redhead frowned. "I've no idea what you're talking about."

"Well, only that some of us always thought—" Glaewen faltered. "Well, that you and Prince Legolas—"

"Some of you thought wrong," Tauriel snapped, the other's meaning now clear. Part of her wanted to laugh at the notion that she and the Elvish prince had married in secret only to have his father banish him for it; it sounded like the stuff of bad poetry. But it would be much the worse for her if she didn't take the rumor seriously and cut it down quickly. Should it reach Thranduil's ears and be believed, he would stop at nothing to find the elleth supposedly carrying his son's child.

"But . . . why leave? A new child is always welcome news, a cause for celebration," Glaewen protested.

"Not this child."

Elflings were indeed adored among the Eldar. They were considered precious gifts, especially since the Eldar had begun to diminish in Middle-earth.

But this child was no elfling. It would be of mixed heritage, neither elfling nor dwarfling but some combination of the two. He or she would never be welcomed by the Eldar.

Tauriel knew something about being an outsider, raised grudgingly in a home where she was seen as lesser by birth. She didn't want the same fate for her child. Nor did she want the babe growing up amidst the darkness that now encroached on the Mirkwood, infecting all who lived there.

Besides, even had she wanted to stay, she had no choice. Thranduil had accepted her back to his kingdom, but she knew him well enough to know that that acceptance was conditional. One false move and she would be banished indeed. And giving birth to the offspring of a dwarf—not just any dwarf but an heir to a rival throne—certainly qualified.

So, go she must. And better to do it now before she was too heavy with child to travel.

Perhaps seeing something that would not be denied in the set of the redhead's jaw or the straightening of her back, Glaewen relented. "At least let me help you pack, fetch you some things you may need for the journey."

For the first time that day, Tauriel relaxed and smiled softly. "Thank you, _mellon nín_. I would be most grateful."

The young healer returned awhile later with several herbal concoctions to encourage good health in expectant mothers as well as an ointment to soothe stretching skin. Tauriel embraced her in thanks. She truly would miss her thoughtful, generous friend.

She would miss Thranduil, too, in his own way.

And of course Legolas. She missed him much and often. But, she reminded herself, he had made his choice, and now she must make her own.

As if reading her friend's thoughts, Glaewen said, "I know that Legolas is not the father of the babe, but do you not think he will be greatly saddened to return and find you gone? Do you not think he would want to take some part in the rearing of this elfling?"

Though she didn't elaborate, Tauriel gave the other elleth a sad look full of meaning. "No, Glaewen, I do not." Not when the elfling was half dwarven. On this matter, Legolas was his father's son; he despised dwarves.

Obviously, there was more to this story than met the eye, and the redhead had her reasons for not telling it. Her raven-haired friend nodded in acceptance and changed the subject. "You still haven't told me where you're going."

"I am deserting the Silvan army, _mellon nín_. I wouldn't want you to be implicated as an accomplice to my desertion."

"I've given you supplies to take with you, so I already am an accomplice," Glaewen argued.

No answer was forthcoming.

"At least send for me when your time is near? Do not send word. Send me something red—a hair ribbon or handkerchief or whatever you have on hand. And that will be our sign that I should come to you."

The expectant mother nodded slowly. She _would_ need someone to help deliver the babe, someone who had attended elven births before.

"Now then, where should I expect this sign to come from?"

Still no answer.

"No one will come after you because of me, I promise. I can hold my tongue."

"No one will come after me even if you can't," Tauriel finally admitted on a deep sigh. "Not where I'm going."

"So then? Where will you go?"

"The only place I _can_ go. To Erebor."

There was a profound silence. Then: "Erebor?" the brunette echoed, blinking in confusion. "I should think that would be the _last_ place you could go. _Mellon_ , I know you've been at odds with certain individuals since the battle, but do you think yourself so friendless that you would live amongst enemies?"

"The dwarves are not our enemies," the other elleth said with more feeling than she'd intended.

Thankfully, Glaewen ignored her emotional display. "Be that as it may, there must be places more suitable for a Wood Elf to live than under a mountain! Let me send word to my father in Imladris. Surely he can find a home for you there."

This time Tauriel was touched by the gesture, and appreciation softened her tone. "That is a kind and generous offer, my friend, and one I won't soon forget. But circumstances for the babe and myself would be no different there than here."

"But, Tauriel, why do you suppose—?" Glaewen cut herself off, then began again, her voice deliberately reasonable. "I've heard it said that you defied the king to defend the Dwarves of Erebor, and regardless what others may think, _I_ believe you're to be admired for acting upon your convictions. But, _mellon_ , whatever temporary understanding you may have reached with the dwarves, they may not be prepared to welcome an elleth and her young elfling as residents in their halls. The legacy of enmity between our races cannot be so easily forgotten. I implore you to think of what is best for the babe, who will doubtless suffer if not raised among his or her own kind!"

"I _have_ thought of it, Glaewen. That is why I must go to Erebor." Tauriel closed her rucksack and turned to face the healer squarely. It was becoming plainer by the minute that Glaewen would not cease in her good intentions until she heard the truth. Or at least part of it. "The father of the babe was one of Thorin Oakenshield's company."

The brunette cocked her head. "There was an ellon among his company?"

"No."

Tauriel held Glaewen's gaze, letting that single word, that seed of a much larger implication, hang there in the air between them until she saw the first kernel of awareness begin to germinate in the other's eyes.

"Do I understand you to be saying," Glaewen asked in barely more than a whisper as she sank into the nearest seat, "that the babe's father was a . . . a _dwarf_?"

Tauriel let her silent, steady gaze be confirmation enough and steeled herself for incredulity, reproach, possible disgust.

But all Glaewen said when she raised her glassy eyes, jaw still slack with shock, was, "Then to Erebor you must go."

* * *

The grand Gate of Erebor was at once familiar and yet different.

It was still guarded by gigantic twin effigies of Thráin I, founder of the mountain kingdom, and two dwarves who stood in their shadow, axes crossed defensively in front of doors that could easily have admitted five rows of twenty dwarrow standing on each other's shoulders, so high and wide were they.

But the bridge over the moat had been repaired, and now there was a sense of activity, of the hustle and bustle of life within the walls of the dwarven city. Outside the gates, gruff voices issued commands interspersed by calls of greeting and occasional laughter. Animals were led to and fro across the courtyard, loaded carts were pushed hither and thither, and farther away, a military troop was running through its morning drill.

It gladdened Tauriel's heart to see the kingdom Kíli had fought for thriving like this. At least he had not died in vain.

"Who are ye? State your business at Erebor," one of the guards barked when she reined in her horse at the gate.

After Princess Dís's very public denunciation of her the last time she'd been here, the elf maiden prayed that they would not recognize her name. "Tauriel, of the Woodland Realm."

No reaction, thank the Valar.

"I am here to speak with Master Óin."

On the journey, she'd had time to consider how she would gain entrance to Erebor and to whom she would present her plight. She didn't know who currently sat on the kingdom's throne. Rumor had it that it might be Dáin Ironfoot, but there had been no formal proclamation. The dwarves were a secretive race that hated to show weakness, and in the wake of the heavy damages sustained in the reclamation of Erebor, they had withdrawn into the Lonely Mountain to rebuild. Everyone fully expected they would reemerge this time next year, their kingdom restored to its former glory, but for now, the channels of communication were closed.

So Tauriel was keenly aware that she was about to throw herself on the mercy of an unknown entity, a faceless monarch whose history with the Eldar was uncertain. For all she knew, he might have fought at the Battle of Five Armies and felt some loyalty to elves. But then again, he might have arrived after the battle and brought the deep-seated prejudices of his homeland with him. Or perhaps he'd never met an elf and was indifferent to them.

In any case, even if she was to roll the dice and request an audience with this nameless ruler, it was highly unlikely she would be admitted to his presence in private, and this was far too delicate a matter to discuss before a roomful of onlookers.

She would need an intermediary. Someone who was already favorably disposed toward her. Someone who had enough clout in Erebor to advocate for her before the king or before those who would go before the king. Especially if—and she didn't like to seriously consider this possibility—the Princess Dís had already poisoned the new sovereign against her.

If that intermediary wasn't Óin, then she didn't know who it would be.

As the great gate swung open for her, Tauriel hoped to Valinor that this was the last time she would enter as a stranger. With all that was in her, she prayed that she was coming home.

* * *

Things were much more organized at Erebor these days. Before Tauriel was inside the gates, a groom approached to take her mount, and one page ran her message to Óin while another showed her into the magnificent columned entrance hall, which despite being inside a mountain, was both brighter and airier than she remembered from her last visit.

She didn't have to wait long before Óin appeared, ear trumpet in hand, at the head of one of the sweeping stone staircases that seemed to ascend and descend haphazardly like the rope bridges in the treetops of the Woodland, their origins and destinations known only to those who traveled them daily. She immediately smiled in recognition and moved forward to meet the medic, but something in his bearing slowed her steps. While not unwelcoming, his answering smile was strained.

"Lassie! Good it is to see ye. I must admit I didna expect ye to come this way again so soon."

"Neither did I," she said cautiously. "But my circumstances have changed."

"Aye." He nodded slowly, seriously. "Much has changed here, too."

The elven warrior didn't consider herself all that good with words, especially under emotionally trying conditions, so on those long miles between the Mirkwood and Erebor she had prepared a speech of sorts, rehearsed how she would present her case. Still, it was difficult—more difficult than she had bargained on—to bring herself to utter the reason for her visit. She'd never said the words aloud before, much less to someone she barely knew.

 _I am with child by Prince Kíli of Erebor, sister-son of Thorin II, once King under the Mountain._

"I come on a personal matter that must be discussed with the king." She felt her cheeks warm and paused a moment to gather herself before she continued. "I have left the Woodland Realm and am here to beg his mercy and protection."

Óin frowned instantly, his brow furrowing with concern. "Yer in trouble, lass?"

"Not at all." Damn her immediate instinct to deny any need of help! "I suppose so." And how could she call this most precious little life "trouble"? "That is, not exactly . . ."

"Sorry, lass, ye'll have to speak up." Óin was tipping his ear trumpet toward her and squinting at her lips as if to read them. The problem, however, was what she _wasn't_ saying.

 _I am carrying the last of the direct line of Durin. Will your king give his protection to this child?_

She desperately needed to tell Óin about the babe and find out if she would have an ally in him, but it was amazing how the courage that was her ever-present friend in battle deserted her so easily now. Instead, she said, "I ask for nothing but shelter and an opportunity to serve here in Erebor in whatever way I can. You are familiar with my skill, both in war and in medicine. I would happily defend the mountain alongside your people and share with you what I know of Elvish military strategy and spellcraft. If your king has any gratitude at all toward the Silvan army, I would humbly ask that he repay it with this small kindness to one who fought beside you in the Battle of Five."

Óin grunted. "Yer skill is not in question. Ye've been King Thranduil's cap'n longer'n any of us under the mountain have been alive. And I saw with me own eyes what ye did in Laketown."

The elf maiden acknowledged this with a slight bow.

"But why, lass? Why leave yer home? And why come here? Why now?"

There was something peculiar in the dwarf's expression intermingled with natural curiosity, concern, and compassion. Was it regret? It was hard to tell, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, that he too had something he couldn't bring himself to say. Nevertheless, his questions weren't unreasonable and deserved answers.

"I made a choice whose outcome my king will not accept," Tauriel said simply. Then, before she lost her nerve, she added, "Also, I bear a gift given to me by Prince Kíli. If nothing else, I wish to return the gift to its rightful place." Now at last she had come to it, and she steeled herself to answer Óin's inevitable questions about the nature of this choice, this gift.

But, to her amazement, the elderly dwarf only smiled wearily and said, "Memory can be a beautiful gift itself, lass."

She tilted her head in wordless assent. Hadn't she said much the same to Kíli about why elves loved the light of the stars? It was a gift of memory, precious and pure. No one knew that better than she.

"Sometimes it's more beautiful'n any present reality in this dark world we dwell in." Óin hesitated, and once more she had the sense that he was holding back something from her. "Wouldn't ya maybe rather keep this gift, whatever it is . . . as a memory?"

Her mouth suddenly dry, she wet her lips, then said, "It isn't solely mine to keep."

Yes, she could keep the one memory Kíli had left her to herself. She could eke out an existence for them alone in the forest or maybe in some small-minded human town where they would be shunned and ridiculed, without friends or family. But that was no life for a child, either way.

Erebor offered the best chance for this young one to grow up safe and secure and with a sense of culture, a long, distinguished heritage of which he or she could be proud. Though of mixed race and possibly ineligible for the throne, the heir or heiress of the archer prince would be a member of the royal family in this dwarven kingdom and would, Tauriel hoped, be afforded a respect for it that might be denied a "half breed" in a city of elves or men. To her eternal sorrow, death had denied her child a father, but it must not deny the advantages that were due his son or daughter.

More importantly, Kíli had left kin behind here, and they had cared deeply for him and mourned his loss. How could they not also come to care for this small part of him they would regain? Dís, in particular, might never fully accept Tauriel, but the babe was the child of her fallen child, the last of her line. It was difficult to imagine she wouldn't embrace her only living descendant when all was said and done. And whatever Tauriel's own feelings about Kíli's mother, the babe deserved to know her, as well as the other blood relations who were part of their large but close-knit family.

The decision was made.

A moment more, and with a deep sigh of resignation and a wave of his hand, Óin said, "Follow me."

* * *

Tauriel didn't know where she had expected Óin to take her. Perhaps to some sort of sitting room where she would await a decision while he consulted those who had the power to make one and where, if she was lucky, she might be served the kind of hot meal she hadn't eaten in the better part of a week. But certainly not straight up a central flight of steps that seemed to ascend almost vertically into the sky. After awhile, she began to wonder if they would reach the top of this grand staircase before midday. A few times, she chanced to look down and was struck by the dizzying drop.

It occurred to her that she was now repeating her first venture into Erebor in reverse. Last time, she'd gone down into the mountain's bowels; this time, she was going up into its heights. Dizzying though it was, there was a sense of completion to it, of coming full circle.

At long last, there were no more steps.

Here there was a set of doors almost as massive as the famed gates at the entrance to the city. And perhaps more impressive than the doors themselves was the immediate response of the guards, who unbarred and flung them open when Óin was still at least thirty paces away, as if he was expected.

The elleth had a sense that they were approaching a center of power and wondered at the medic's ability to come and go from it so freely. She had guessed he would command respect here as a healer and member of the Company of Fourteen, but you could never be certain how a new ruler would react to the supporters of the last one. In any case, Óin and Dáin Ironfoot or whoever now wore the crown must have been exceedingly close for the former to pass this checkpoint without question and while accompanied by an elf.

And then Tauriel stopped thinking about Óin and Dáin and the Company because she couldn't think in the midst of such splendor.

They were in a vaulted chamber, the height and breadth of which was staggering, flanked by gigantic support columns carved into the images of dwarven warriors. The line of Durin perhaps? She didn't know, but they were nearly as intimidating as if they'd been alive. They must've been aboveground here, for shafts of sunlight pierced the arched windows of the rotunda like so many golden blades.

Directly before them was another flight of nearly vertical stairs, which Óin proceeded to climb with the elf maiden trailing respectfully behind. At the top of this staircase was a long walkway that eventually intersected with five others in a starburst pattern. And at the center of this six-pointed star, she now saw, was the throne of Erebor, a seat of stone as weighty as the history it represented, carved from the tip of a natural rock formation, a stalactite veined with precious metals.

Her instinct was to hang back and let Óin approach the dais. She hadn't anticipated that he would bring her to the king straightaway, and she felt unprepared. But, to her dismay, he announced her as "Tauriel, Silvan Elf of the Woodland Realm," swept a bow in the direction of the throne, and nodding once to her, took his leave.

Now she was alone with the King under the Mountain, who didn't seem to keep a court or have any other guests at hand.

Alone in this cavernous space so high and deep that the very swish of her light, leather-soled footsteps echoed.

The king's back was to her, the geometric angles of his crown encircling his head, his fur-lined cloak the teal blue of the House of Durin. Tall for a dwarf, she observed, and with long, dark hair just like Thorin Oakenshield had had. That same familiar bearing, too, hands clasped behind his back and feet planted firmly apart. Thorin had carried himself that way. And Fíli and—

The king turned.

And Tauriel forgot to breathe.

Her heart stopped, then beat wildly in an effort to catch up to a new reality so far beyond anything she had considered that she was sure she'd collapsed from hunger and exhaustion somewhere on the endless stairs and was now dreaming. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

O Valar, was it true? The last time she'd seen him he was . . .

And now he was . . .

 _O Valar, o Valar . . . !_ He was . . .

" _Kíli!_ " she cried on a sobbing sound, her voice echoing through the hall, and without any further thought, dashed headlong up the walkway.

* * *

A/N: Oh no, oh no! Yes . . . yes, I did end it there for the week. I am a horrible, evil elf girl, and you can feel free to hate me now. ;)


	7. Chapter 7 - A Sovereign Duty

A/N: I was thrilled to get so many reviewers last week—thanks for taking the time to comment, guys! And I think we picked up a couple new followers/favoriters. {waves} Hello! Thank you! :)

WARNING: Possible heartbreak ahead. Tissues may be required. This was the hardest chapter to write so far, both as a writer and as a Kíliel fan, and I've been nervous to post it because I suspect some of you (or even many of you) won't be happy with this turn of events. But, remember, this too shall pass! And **when you're done** , before you scream, **please see my end note**.

Guest 4/9: Well, you're about to get Kíli's reaction right now and find out if your theory about Dís was right. Thanks for commenting! :)

tbd: My chapters average 3,000–4,000 words; the last one was about 3,500. My options are either to do shorter updates more frequently or longer updates less frequently, and in my experience, people are happier when they don't have to wait a really long time to find out what happens next. But if you'd rather read in one sitting instead of week to week, my suggestion would be to bookmark the story in your browser or follow it here on the site and come back to it when it's further along. Hope that helps, and thanks for reading and commenting! :)

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 7**

 **A Sovereign Duty**

* * *

" _Kíli!_ " she cried on a sobbing sound, her voice echoing through the hall, and without any further thought, dashed headlong up the walkway.

" _Tauriel!_ " The sun broke over his face then, his joy naked for anyone to see, and he launched himself down the stairs of the dais and took off toward her at breakneck speed . . . only to halt halfway to her as if reined in by some invisible chain.

Tauriel felt as if she'd been doused by ice water. Confused, she slowed to a walk—subdued now, one foot in front of the other—until she came to a stop before him, close enough to touch him if she only reached out.

"Kíli," she whispered uncertainly.

"Tauriel," he whispered in return.

He looked as uncertain as she felt. And hopeful and wary and determined and . . . sad.

Oh, why did he look so sad when he was so hardy and hale, so joyfully, vibrantly, undeniably alive?

The King under the Mountain— _Kíli!_ —studied her intently. "You look . . . _very_ well."

She felt the babe stir at the sound of his voice, and her hand unintentionally flew to her barely rounded belly. "I _am_ well," she acknowledged, scarcely able to contain her elation. "And you look . . . _alive_!"

And then she couldn't hold back any longer. She had to touch her love's hair, his face, the brow that had taken the orc's blow, now smooth and even. "By the Valar, it can't be! How did you—? I saw you! You were—"

"Dead. Yes. So they say." He captured her roving hand and held it still over his heart. "I woke up at my own funeral."

She shook her head helplessly.

"At sundown. Right before they laid me to rest"—here he winced and swallowed—"beside my brother and uncle."

She heard what he didn't say. How terrible it must've been to awake to the chaos and hysteria that would surely have ensued and then, on top of it all, to be greeted in those first conscious moments by the sight of his beloved Fíli and Thorin, dead and gone!

She tightened her hand around his. She didn't know the appropriate Dwarvish condolences, so she hoped an Elvish one would translate. "I'm so very sorry. May their names never fade on our lips, nor the stars on their memories."

A hint of a smile showed that he understood the intention. He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. "Thank you."

Up close now, she saw there was something different about him. Something _changed_ around the corners of his eyes or the set of his mouth. Something more than the passage of five moons warranted. As if he'd come back from the Halls of Waiting but left behind a vital part of the Kíli she had known.

Still, his liquid brown eyes could melt her heart in one glance. Nothing had changed about that. Oh, how she had missed those eyes! Eyes she'd thought she would never look into again! And surely when she told him of the babe, those eyes would light with joy once more.

But how was all this even possible? As a healer, Glaewen sometimes told eerie tales of mortals who slept the sleep of death only to be reanimated while their loved ones kept vigil at their bedsides or prepared to lower them into the ground. It was strange but not unheard of. Yet such wonders usually occurred after a fever or perhaps a head injury.

Kíli had been mortally wounded, stabbed clean through the chest. She'd seen the gaping hole with her own eyes, tried to staunch the blood with her own hands long after its flow had ceased.

She'd even tried to give him the healing grace of her own _fëa_.

And he'd remained cold and still.

"But how—? Kíli, I don't understand. When you died, I was with you. And afterward . . . I was _there_!"

He pressed her hand, but he looked troubled, voice oddly flat as he said, "I know you were. When I woke, this was in my hand." From somewhere in the folds of his cloak, he withdrew a familiar object and placed it in her upturned palm.

 _The runestone._

Once she'd thought it was a curse, but now, if anything, it seemed quite the opposite. It _had_ brought him back to her.

" . . . And when they asked me," he was saying, "I remembered nothing of what had happened after jumping atop that orcish cur. Didn't know where I was or where I'd been for the twenty-four hours that everyone thought me dead. Just felt like I'd taken a long nap, really, the kind that gives you a sore neck from sleeping in one position for too long. And then Dwalin and some of the others told me they'd seen you with me on Ravenhill after I died and that you were . . . using your magic on me . . . like in Laketown."

Suddenly he seemed anxious to avoid her eyes.

"Gandalf said you shouldn't have been able to bring me back on your own like that, not without a Ring of Power, and that it's a mystery even to him."

Immediately, her gaze fell to the center of his chest even though it was, of course, impossible to see through his layers of royal finery.

He read her perfectly. "There's no scar. Nothing." And then when she still squinted at the site of the fatal wound, he opened his cloak and the robe beneath it to give her a glimpse of flesh without mark or flaw.

She stared openly for a long moment, then nodded. "What of your leg? Where the Morgul shaft struck you?"

He shook his head. "That left a scar. It still aches a bit sometimes, too."

She frowned in thought. It made no sense. How could she have healed so completely what a giant mace had impaled yet only partially what a poison arrow had pricked?

"Did you really not know you had healed me?"

His question brought her back to the present, and she shook her head. "I still don't even know how I did."

His eyes fluttered closed, and he swallowed, relief momentarily dissolving the tension in his features. "I thought . . . that maybe you knew."

Tauriel understood him instantly. This must be why he seemed so guarded! All these months, he'd mistakenly thought she set his healing in motion and then walked away. "Had I known you lived, I would have come the very day! I didn't desert you, _meleth nín_." She reached for his hands again, and he squeezed them gratefully. But, to her consternation, a moment later he eased away.

"So, then, how _did_ you know that I lived?"

"I—I didn't. How could I? The Woodland has heard nothing from Erebor these five moons past."

The realization hit her swiftly and painfully.

 _And I have heard nothing from you. Why?_

Even if he feared she'd walked away, why had he not followed to be sure? Such reticence wasn't like the Kíli she knew.

He gave a single, slow nod of acknowledgement. "My . . . reawakening . . . was a very public event here in Erebor, but, with Gandalf's counsel, my mother and Balin felt strongly that the outside world should not know of it yet. The kingdom is still fragile, and I am"—he gestured to the throne room at large as he turned back toward the dais—"still learning how to do this."

She wondered if he knew that he grimaced when he said it.

"They knew a—a miracle like this would attract hoards of curiosity seekers and thought it better for me—for us—to wait till the restoration is complete before drawing such attention to ourselves."

She couldn't help but notice how he stumbled over the word "miracle." Or how differently he spoke now, with the practiced, deliberately indirect language of sovereigns. Suddenly, the enormous arched windows that surrounded the throne seemed to bathe it in a clearer, colder light, and she shivered inwardly.

The dwarf king paused on the third step of the dais, and the elf approached until the two of them were at eye level. In fact, he was standing slightly above her now.

"Did you think _I_ would draw attention to you? That I couldn't be trusted not to inform these curious hoards if you sent word to me that you lived?"

He winced as if the question physically stung. "Of course not. I would trust you with my life." Something about his own answer seemed to upset him further, though, because his expression shifted then, became more guarded. "But . . . why _did_ you come? When I was told you were in Erebor, I thought for a certainty you knew."

"No. I came because I've left the Mirkwood."

The next instant, the King under the Mountain vanished, and he was Kíli of Ered Luin again, glaring with his old intensity. "What happened? Did someone hurt you? Was it Thranduil?" He slammed a fist into his palm, and his next words tumbled over themselves like the cataract that spilled over the rock face of the mountain. "By Mahal, if that villainous bastard harmed a hair on your head, Tauriel, I will bring every dwarrow in Erebor against him! I will _not_ let it stand! Tell me what you need. My entire kingdom is at your service. No crime against you will go unanswered, I swear it!" By now he was pacing, his cloak swirling around him to punctuate each exclamation.

The one-time captain bowed her head and intentionally kept her voice to a low, calming pitch. "You honor me that you would take such measures in my defense, but thankfully that will not be necessary. King Thranduil has not wronged me in any way, nor has anyone in his realm. I left of my own free will, for reasons of my own."

"You are sure?"

"Very."

Kíli still looked skeptical, but he'd stopped pacing, and his breathing was slowing, the high color in his cheeks receding.

Tauriel waited a moment more, then plunged ahead. "I came because I wanted to ask for the protection and hospitality of the King under the Mountain."

Kíli blinked rapidly. "You wanted to stay here? In Erebor?"

"You told me once that I had a standing invitation. I came hoping that invitation might still stand, even under other leadership. But now that I know you _are_ that leadership . . . " She raised open, honest forest green eyes to look him full in the face.

The king closed his own eyes and exhaled briefly. Again, some invisible weight settled on him, and she was struck by how much more than five moons seemed to have passed between them. "Tauriel. As much as I'd like to extend that invitation to you, it would not be wise."

 _Wise. Would not be. Would not be wise._

She heard the words, but they were as jumbled and senseless as if he'd spoken them in another language. Dumbfounded, she could only repeat, "But you _are_ that leadership."

"Yes! I am!" he burst out. "That's why is isn't wise." Abruptly, he pivoted, his cloak catching air like the wing of a raptor, and strode toward the nearest window. The next words, uttered over his shoulder, were pained. "If no one in the Mirkwood has hurt you, you should go back. You're far better off there."

And just like that, without firing a single arrow, the dwarven archer king pierced her heart straight through.

 _He didn't want her here._

That was why Óin had tried to discourage her from seeking refuge in Erebor. Kíli must've instructed him to try to turn her away!

By the Valar, her _meleth e-guilen_ , for whom she had mourned these five moons and nearly faded—for, against all odds, her _fëa_ had bound itself to his mortal soul—didn't want her with him!

What she'd feared on the lakeshore had been true all along. That night had been nothing but a dream to him, the passing fancy of a royal for a common maid. Just because they were bonded in her eyes didn't mean they were bonded in his.

She felt faint and not due to the babe.

Later, away from prying eyes, she would nurse this fresh wound and salt it with her tears. But right now it inflamed her like the scent of blood in battle, and she too had arrows in her quiver. With lifted chin and flashing emerald eyes, she displayed the runestone in her outstretched hand. "You gave this to me as a promise. Does the word of the King under the Mountain mean nothing?"

Kíli's own eyes were like dark, empty voids as he looked from the stone to the warrior who stood so straight and proud before him, her beauty only heightened by her passion. "It wasn't the king who gave you his word," he said dully. And then more bitterly, "It was Kíli from the Blue Mountains. Second sister-son of Thorin, king of an abandoned city. Brother of Fíli, crown prince of a motley crew of thirteen. Spare heir to nothing! And then he died." His voice dropped. "Tauriel, even had I imagined being a prince of this realm in my wildest dreams, I never thought I would wake as its king."

He turned to the window and braced his forearm against the pane, overlooking what she supposed was the bustling courtyard below.

"I have duties now. Responsibilities. My life is no longer my own."

"And I suppose those duties and responsibilities include choosing a queen from a good dwarven family and producing an heir." Despite her flaming cheeks, her voice was cold.

"My obligation to this kingdom must come before personal desires or feelings. It's . . . it's greater than I am."

"But _you_ are the king. Your word is law. You have but to declare—"

"You don't know what it's like, Tauriel," he snapped. "You don't understand the politics of governing a recently dispossessed and divided people."

"Don't I?" She stared at him incredulously. "For twenty-three and five hundred years longer than you've been alive, Kíli, I stood at the right hand of the leader of a crumbling empire and a people under foreign rule."

His response was swift and severe. "And did _you_ lead that empire? Did _you_ rule that people? Observing and acting are _not_ the same thing! Mahal knows, I observed Thorin my entire life, and what did I really learn from it?"

Taken aback, the fiery-haired elf fell silent. She couldn't argue his point. Watching a king wasn't _being_ a king. Despite her much vaster accumulation of knowledge, he once again bested her in experience.

"I was raised to be a warrior." He was back to pacing, shaking a fist now and then for emphasis. "Uncle trained me from a dwarfling to fight at the front line with the sole purpose of one day retaking Erebor so _he_ could rule. _That_ was my destiny. I learned next to nothing of delegation, legislation, arbitration." A bizarre laugh bubbled up from his throat and floated somewhere between pain and hysteria. "Durin's beard, I don't even speak proper Khuzdul! I sound like a twelve-year-old blast driller's lad!"

He shook his head and rubbed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes, still laughing that strange, painful laugh. Then he flung his arms wide as if to embrace the whole throne room.

"Do you think I wanted this? A life of meetings and more meetings, every minute of the day planned out for me? A life that doesn't belong to me anymore because I'm just a _symbol,_ a stone idol and not a flesh and blood dwarf with feelings and desires and needs of my own?" His voice cracked with pent-up emotion. "I never wanted to be king!"

"So don't be!" Tauriel stepped forward again. "Abdicate! Give the throne to Dáin. Most everyone outside Erebor thinks it's his already."

"And betray everyone who risked their lives to fight for this? All the dwarrow who had enough faith in me to uproot themselves from wherever they called home and make the journey back to our motherland? You don't understand what my family represents to them! Hope for a future, Tauriel! I owe it to the people, I—" His voice fell, and he ground out the last words, low but fierce. "I owe it to Thorin. This was his dream, and I will live it for him."

For a breathtaking moment, backlit by a haze of golden light, the reluctant ruler looked every inch King under the Mountain.

Then he hung his head.

"He had dragon sickness, you know. He wanted to wall us off in the mountain and wait out the battle inside." The dwarf peered up at the elf maid, his eyes black pools of sorrow. "I was the one who convinced him to fight. He led us out to the battlefield himself, but . . . I was the one." Unable to hold her gaze, he dropped his again. "And now he's dead. As Fíli is, too." And more quietly, "As I should be."

He leaned his head on the window pane in defeat, and Tauriel had to push down the urge to go to him and take him in her arms. To cradle his head on her shoulder and stroke his hair and tell him that none of this was his fault, that he'd already made Thorin proud by reclaiming Erebor for the dwarves and didn't need to rule it for a ghost.

But clearly Kíli didn't want that.

Then his fists balled, and his voice took on a harder tone. "Why didn't you let me die with them? Why did you bring me back to this . . . this empty life?"

His words cut deeper than any blade—a death blow—and her own came out sharp and clipped. "Perhaps I thought you'd want to live it with me. But now I can see that was . . . foolish." Though she felt as if he'd chopped her down to nothing, she drew herself up to full height and was gratified that she still towered over him in body, if not in spirit.

She extended a long, graceful arm to give him a full view of the runestone. "You woke with this in your hand and knew I gave it back to you, but what you don't know is why. Now I'll tell you. I returned it to you on Ravenhill so you would keep it as a promise—that someday, somehow, even if only in death, I would come back to you. Now I have. I won't trouble you further."

He lifted his head, eyes wide and suddenly softer than they'd been since she'd first looked on his reanimated form. She waited to see if he had anything further to say for himself but, when he did not, held the talisman out to him until he took it, then said more gently, in spite of herself, "I truly wish you well, Kíli. May all thy ways be green and golden."

* * *

His gaze fell to the stone, and he traced a thumb over the carvings, the grooves as familiar to his fingers as a shortcut home in the twilight to the feet of a young lad.

It still held the heat of her hand, but that was fading fast. He closed his eyes and held it tight even as she was slipping through his fingers.

Read it again, though he knew it by heart.

 _Innik dê._

 _Come back to me._

"Tauriel—" The king scrambled up from his perch on the windowsill, some damnable decoration on his damnable cloak snagging on the latticework. "Wait—"

"Come back, _amrâlimê_ . . . " he closed his eyes and whispered to the empty room.

* * *

amrâlimê—my love

A/N: If you're upset right now and wondering why I'm so evil, please take a moment, breathe, and read this.

Before you hate on Kíli for sending Tauriel away, you should know that things are not always what they seem. Next week's update will be from his POV, and we'll find out what the heck has _really_ been happening in Erebor since he woke up and how he came to the decision that he had to let Tauriel go. (Hint: There's more to it than meets the eye, and chances are it's not what you think.) Even with that said, I realize some of you will be disappointed with the direction this fic is headed, so I want to take a minute to explain, generally, what that direction is.

Part of what sparked my inspiration for this fic was that I noticed most stories in which only Kíli lives take one of two courses—he either abdicates/goes into hiding or he adjusts to the kingship with relative ease. Either way, he and Tauriel start courting (or even marry) immediately, and their obstacles are mostly external to them. Many of these stories are fantastic, and I enjoy them as much as anyone, but I wanted to try something different. I wanted to explore what would happen if Kíli didn't abdicate but also did _not_ adjust easily to the kingship. What problems might his new position create for him and Tauriel? What would it look like if they couldn't be together right away as a result? How might they have to grow and change as individuals and find their way back to each other? What _could_ bring them back to each other?

In this fic, Kíli and Tauriel's obstacles are mostly internal. They arise from miscommunications, from personal demons like self-doubt and self-blame, from inexperience, and sometimes from plain old poor choices. There are external obstacles, too, but eventually they will come to see that none of these are insurmountable when they confront them as a team.

This is meant to be a longer work with multiple arcs and an especially long one for Kíli and Tauriel. As the plot expands, it will be as much general drama for awhile as it is romance, and a lot more characters will appear on the scene. I am, in part, inspired by nineteenth-century novels (think Dickens or the Brontës) in which the hero and heroine are irresistibly drawn to each other but then are parted and have to take their own journeys before they're ready to reunite. I've said a few times in my notes or in answers to comments that it will be a long and winding road for Kíli and Tauriel, and I meant that literally as well as metaphorically. They will each have to take an actual journey in this fic, first separately and then together.

I hope all of you will want to come along with Kíli and Tauriel on this journey, but I understand that this kind of fic isn't everyone's cup of tea. If you like the story so far but can't stand to read about them apart, my best suggestion would be to bookmark it and read it when it's complete so you can skim over the "sad parts" in one or two sittings and get to the "happy parts" quickly. For the rest of you, our adventure is just getting started, so pull up a comfy chair, pour yourself a glass of fine Elvish wine (if you're old enough), kick back, and enjoy. We're gonna be here for awhile! ;)


	8. Chapter 8 - A Growing Danger

A/N: First off, many, many thanks for your reviews, follows, and favorites, even if (or especially if) you were frustrated with the events of the last chapter! I hugely appreciate your support for (or in spite of) the direction of this fic! :D And for those of you who were upset with Kíli last time, I'd be really curious to hear if you think differently about him after this update. Some possible "discussion questions" for anyone who wants to bite: Do you understand why he felt he had to let Tauriel go? In this situation, do you think he could've or should've done anything differently, and if so, what?

Second, this update is twice as long as usual, but after that last chapter, I wanted you to have a full, uninterrupted picture of Kíli's side of the story, and that required a lengthier stretch in his POV without the scene breaks that normally become natural divides for chapters. I'm letting you guys know this so the length of this chapter doesn't raise expectations for the future since I wouldn't be able to maintain a weekly update schedule if all my chapters were this long. ;)

WARNING: The angst is strong with this one!

Guest 4/16: Thanks for you comment! Good points! :) I think Tauriel considered her situation and didn't see a perfect solution. Anywhere she went, she figured the baby would grow up as an outsider and be ostracized for it. In Erebor, at least the child would have blood relations and be of royal descent, the last of his/her line. I think Tauriel hoped that would make the child more welcome than he/she would have been elsewhere. Although Dís was very harsh to Tauriel, my guess is Tauriel thought Kíli's mother might learn to love her own grandchild, especially since she had no other living descendants. If I do a further revision of this fic, I might add a couple of lines to clarify the above, so thank you for asking about it! :) As far as where Tauriel will go from here, I don't want to give away too much, but Rivendell is one possibility. And, yes, someone will need to help her with the birth, though everyone is in new territory with a dwarven/elven baby. Thank you again for your helpful feedback! :D

ETA: I added a couple more section dividers to make the shifts back and forth in time easier to follow.

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 8**

 **A Growing Danger**

* * *

 _A-live. A-live. A-live._

The word pulsed in her head in rhythm with her pounding heart.

 _Her Kíli was alive!_

Only he wasn't hers.

By his own choice.

He was Kíli of Erebor, King under the Mountain. He belonged to his people now.

It wasn't that Tauriel was a stranger to the concept of self-sacrifice in the line of duty. As captain of the guard, she'd set aside her own needs many a time for the sake of her charges.

But this was different. Kíli was her _meleth e-guilen_. She might sacrifice herself, but she would never sacrifice him. She would never put duty before love. Indeed that was why she was no longer captain of the guard!

She leaned against the back of a support column in the entrance hall, breathing heavily. Her heart felt battered and bruised after reeling from elation to devastation to outrage and finally despair. Such emotional extremes were rare for elves, and to experience them all in the space of an hour left her shaky and drained.

To think she'd stood close enough to her _meleth_ to embrace him, to breathe in the scent of his hair, to whisper the vows of love she'd sworn only after his death into his now warm, uptilted ear . . . only for him to deny her all of it! It was unbearable.

At least she was rid of that accursed runestone, for ever since she'd laid eyes on it, she could do nothing right! When she'd failed to save Kíli, it was her fault that he died. Now that she'd succeeded, it was her fault that he lived! She couldn't be sorry that she had somehow saved him—she would _never_ be sorry for that—but it cut her to the quick that _he_ was. Perhaps Dís was right that none of this would've happened if she'd let Kíli fight his own battles in the first place.

 _O, Valar!_ A light fluttering in her womb. She hadn't told Kíli about the babe!

How could she ever tell him now? Obviously, he regretted what had happened between them and didn't see it as binding in his tradition. What was more, he'd made it plain that he intended to take a dwarven queen to continue his line. How could she march back into the scene of her humiliation and announce that the first of that line would be a half-elven child he wanted nothing to do with?

Oh, how she had wanted the babe to know a father's love, to be surrounded by family and friends in a community that would raise him or her as one of their own! But even if Kíli raised his firstborn out of obligation, the child would be no more welcome here than in King Thranduil's Halls—maybe less so.

Tauriel closed her eyes and brought a hand to her belly, willing the babe to feel the caress. "Oh, little one," she whispered, "it's just you and me now. But I promise you that we will always have each other."

* * *

Kíli of Erebor, King under the Mountain, clenched the windowsill so hard his knuckles whitened.

"Was that _she-elf_ here?"

He didn't turn to look at his mother. "Yes, _'Amad_. I told you she would come," he said flatly, his voice drained of emotion.

"Took her long enough."

"She didn't know that I live. She thought her magic didn't work."

"Her magic _didn't_ work, according to Gandalf," Dís sniffed. "We all know it was a miracle. Mahal smiled on you with favor as the last of the true Sons of Durin so that our line might not perish in Middle-earth."

No, they did _not_ all know that, but Kíli didn't bother to argue with her interpretation of events. They'd been over it time and again, and she already knew he didn't believe Mahal gave two stones who was King under the Mountain. But that was beside the point. "We should've sent word to her. At the very least, she deserved to know I was alive."

"And risk news of such a miracle falling into the wrong hands? We've already discussed why that could not be. No, we made the right decision, _inùdoyê_. Besides, you were so ridiculously smitten with the _she-elf_ when you woke that had we sent word to her then, you'd likely have done something completely reckless like run off and marry the chit."

Kíli said nothing in words.

"In any event, is she gone now?"

"Quite."

" _Galikh_. Now you can turn your attention to more suitable prospects. I've told Dáin we will receive his brother's daughter as soon as she's able to travel, and I understand from Balin that the Silverlord and Axestrong lasses are chomping at the bit for an introduction, although an alliance with Dáin's house would be the most advantageous by far. The union of Erebor and the Iron Hills in marriage would do much to pacify those who still want to see Dáin on the throne, and—"

"I will marry in my own time, _'Amad_ , and not a day before!" The young king slammed his fist down on the windowsill, startling Dís into silence. A moment later, he closed his eyes and rested his head against the pane. "Forgive me, _'Amad_. I didn't mean to snap at you like that. It's been a difficult day, and I am very tired."

After a moment, the princess approached and ran a light hand over her son's hair. "Then I will leave you to rest, _inùdoyê_." Though he still didn't turn, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Refresh yourself. Later there will be much to do. In an hour, Bombur will be here with the engineers and foremen so they can give you the weekly operations report. Then Glóin will present the revised renovation budget, after which there is the matter of amendments to the trade agreement with the Orocarni Blacklocks."

"Aye— Yes. Thank you. I will see you in the Council Chamber shortly."

Even when his mother had gone, Kíli never took his eyes from the window and its view of the courtyard.

 _Ah, Tauriel . . . where are you,_ **_amrâlimê_** _?_ _If I could have just one last glimpse before you go . . ._

One final image of his Tauriel—

No, not _his_. Not anymore. He'd given up any right he might've had to call her that.

He balled his fist and brought it down on the windowsill again. Hard enough to hurt. If only the pain could distract him for more than a moment from the pain in his heart . . .

From the instant he'd seen her flying toward him up the walkway, hair streaking behind her like the tail of a shooting star, even more beautiful than the memories that had sustained him these five months, it had required every ounce of self-control he could muster not to enfold her in his arms and kiss her like she'd never been kissed. To hold her hand and nothing more, to actually _remove_ himself from her touch had been like some torture devised in the pits of Mordor.

He had Dís and Balin and Dáin to "thank" for that newfound self-control, part of his on-the-job training to be a royal sovereign. Just five months ago, he never would've been able to exercise such restraint. He took no pride in his ability to do so now. It felt dishonest, not just to Tauriel but to himself, and it was all part and parcel of the political posturing, the equivocation and dissimulation that he loathed to hear rolling off his own tongue.

Oh, he'd told her the truth, to be sure—but not the whole truth. He could never tell her that if he wanted to keep her safe. Because the truth was she wouldn't be as long as she remained with him.

A cold, shuddering wave passed through him as he remembered the first attempt on his life.

* * *

It had happened during the first fortnight of his reign, when he still couldn't fathom that he was, in fact, reigning. In the aftermath of his reawakening, he'd not yet been saddled with royal duties, but his family— _'Amad_ especially—refused to let him out of their sight, as if he might close his eyes and slip back to the Halls of Waiting when they weren't watching. Opportunities to sneak off were few, and he took them all because, more than anything, he wanted to get away from their relief and joy and thankfulness.

Kíli wasn't relieved or joyful or thankful. He was devastated at the loss of his brother and uncle, worried sick that his _amrâlimê_ had deserted him, and terrified of what the future held for him as king of this ruined city. But he felt too ungrateful to express this to any of the relieved, joyful, or thankful dwarrow who wandered in and out of his chambers.

And so, early in the morning before anyone woke or late in the day when they thought he rested, the King under the Mountain would steal away to explore the halls of Erebor and find a quiet place where he couldn't be found.

Quickly this turned out to be the Northwest cargo lift.

Bombur had said this section of the mines was under renovation even before the Great Desolation, so it would be a long time before excavation started up here again. To Kíli, this meant he was free to shut himself in the lift and zip up and down in it for as long as he thought he wouldn't be missed.

Dwarven lifts were famous for their speed so they could transport loads from ground to base within minutes, and Kíli loved the sensation of free-falling. When the lift plummeted, it felt as though he could drop out from under his heavy thoughts. Until it jerked to a halt, and his thoughts caught up with him, at which point he'd ride back up and do it again.

In this pursuit, he paid little heed to the condition of the equipment, and whether this was because he trusted the engineering of his ancestors implicitly or no longer cared about his own safety he couldn't have said. Either way, when the gears ground to a stop one day with the lift midway between two levels, it struck him that maybe time had done more damage than was readily apparent.

After climbing atop the cage and trying to diagnose the problem with little knowledge and no tools, he figured he'd better sound the alarm bell before _'Amad_ sent out a search party. Sighing over the impending loss of his secret hiding place, he settled back inside the lift to wait for help.

A groan and a snap, and the lift lurched sideways, throwing its occupant into a corner.

With every movement making the cage sway precariously, Kíli crawled to the bell again, this time ringing in the one-two-one distress call pattern. He'd just managed to climb back up to the emergency exit when there was another snap, and his stomach plunged.

This was a real free-fall, not the controlled kind in which he'd repeatedly indulged. Kíli was neither engineer nor mathematician, but growing up in Ered Luin, he and Fíli had flung plenty of rocks down mine shafts to count the seconds till they hit bottom, and he estimated he had roughly a minute and a half before he split apart like one of them. As he hung from the underside of the rooftop exit, the rush of air around him hot and roaring like dragon's breath, it was enough time to wonder if the force of impact would compress the bottom of the cage upward, crushing him, or jar him loose so that he'd hit bottom and die of the fall.

Oddly, he wasn't afraid of either.

 _Uncle, Fíli, I should have been with you in death as I always was in life. Please don't turn your backs on me when you see me again._

 ** _Amrâlimê_** _, if this is my last thought, let it be you . . ._

The impact nearly jerked his arms out of their sockets. _Should_ have, really.

Kíli cracked an eye open. Then another.

He was still dangling from the rooftop emergency door. What cruel trick of the afterlife was this? Was he really to wait in the Halls of Mandos in the same position in which he'd died until the end of the age?

" _Halloooo!_ Can anyone hear me down there?"

That wasn't Uncle or Fíli. That was . . . that was . . .

 _"Bombur?"_ The rotund master engineer spoke sparingly, maybe because he was saving his booming voice for moments like this, and Kíli had never been so happy to hear him use it. "Bombur, it's me! It's Kíli!"

"Kíli lad—? Yer Majesty! Sit tight now, we're bringin' ya right up. Just you hold on!"

Slowly, slowly, gears began to crank, and the lift began to rise. When Kíli reached the top, Bombur ripped open the cage door and—propriety be damned—hugged his king tight enough to crack whatever bones hadn't broken in the fall while his crew whooped and cheered. "What the blazes were ya doin' down there, lad? I told ya the Northwest Mines was closed," he scolded as soon as he pulled back, though his husky voice could never be sharp. "We got here in the nick o' time! Had to flip the last emergency brake at Level One. A few seconds more and . . . "

It wasn't difficult to fill in the blank. The lift would've hurtled past the point of no return.

The next minute, Óin elbowed his way through the crowd and began checking pupils and pulse points. Although he couldn't find obvious injuries, he insisted on a stretcher and a more comprehensive examination in his quarters before he cleared Kíli to return to the royal suite. At the velocity the lift had achieved, the medic was astonished its occupant hadn't sustained serious injuries just from the counterforce of braking.

As unsettling as that was to contemplate, even more disturbing news arrived a few hours later. Bombur had examined the lift's complicated system of pulleys and found cables severed too cleanly to be age-related decay. The "accident" wasn't one; the lift had been sabotaged.

Kíli had never seen anyone follow him, and at first it seemed too incredible to be true that someone wanted him dead. Wasn't the whole kingdom celebrating his "miraculous" resurrection? Of course Dís and Balin forbade him to continue roaming about unattended, security patrols were redoubled, and the incident was thoroughly investigated. But there were no leads.

Maybe, Kíli thought, it wasn't some _one_ who wanted him dead but some _thing_. The will of the mountain seeking to redress the wrong done to it when he had lived and its true king, Thorin, had died. If that was its verdict, he had to agree with it. If the lift was still functional, he might've climbed back into it to let the mountain finish the job.

But weeks passed. There were no further incidents, no threats or shady lurkers or equipment failures. And, after a time, the anxiety faded.

For everyone but the King under the Mountain. For him, it was just beginning, along with his royal duties.

The councils.

The reports.

The budgets.

The laws.

The treaties.

The trials.

The etiquette and the protocol.

The ceremonies in a language he could barely speak at more than a sixth-year level and the history books he now had to read because he hadn't paid attention in the schoolroom, when Thorin was more interested in whether he could hit a moving target at fifty yards than recite the names and direct male descendants of each of the Seven Fathers.

It seemed every breath he drew had to be scheduled, and there was no time left in a day to blow off steam on the archery range or in the armory drill hall. He collapsed in bed at night exhausted, with the faces of those he'd failed floating behind his eyelids.

 _Thorin._

 _Fíli._

And he knew he continued to fail them with each passing day he wore Thorin's crown as if he had a right to it. He cringed to think of Uncle and Fí watching him trip over rites, botch negotiations, and blunder his way through infinite decisions that should have been theirs to make.

 _And Tauriel._

How he missed his love! Where was she? Was she even still his? Her absence was a hollow in his chest that made him think of a tapped-out, caved-in cavern; without her, he felt depleted of the essential elements that made him who he was, of his heart for life, his spirit of hope, and his will to endure. Would he ever again look into those eyes that glittered like the stars she adored or comb his fingers through the lush forest of her hair? Advised by Gandalf to keep their king's unexplained revival a secret, the Royal Council wouldn't hear of sending word to her.

"You want to send an envoy to the Mirkwood? Think, _inùdoyê._ The last time you set foot on that wretched ground, that _shukel_ who calls himself King of the Elves confiscated your possessions and imprisoned you. What do you suppose would become of a missive sent with that envoy?"

The King under the Mountain couldn't help rolling his eyes, as undignified as he was sure it looked beneath his golden diadem. "Things are different now, _'Amad_."

"Why? Because the _shukel_ joined forces with us against Gundabad until he tired of playing with his sword? The instant he saw real Elvish blood on the ground, he fled with his tail between his legs and abandoned our troops, as usual, to fend for themselves—"

"You weren't there, _'Amad_. The ground ran red before he recalled the Silvan army. Their losses were as heavy as ours."

" _I_ was there, lad," Dáin chimed in from across the council table where he, Balin, Dís, and the king had withdrawn for a private session after the full council rejected Kíli's proposal. "Mayhap that blasted orc knocked the memory right outta yer noggin, but Thranduil was set to put an arrow through yer uncle's eye, not to mention me own, afore the bloody spawn of Angmar showed up. He's not to be trusted—"

"It need not be an envoy then, nor a missive. I'll send word to her by raven. She said elves know the languages of birds. She'll understand the message."

Dís balked. "As will anyone else between here and the Mirkwood! Why don't you climb to the top of the mountain with a battle horn and announce yourself to the world? And _don't_ roll your eyes at me. It makes your crown slip over your brow so you look like a lad in the schoolroom."

 ** _"'Amad,"_** he protested, waving her hands away from his hair.

Here in the privacy of the closed council, his mother was unperturbed and adjusted the offending headpiece until she was satisfied. "There, that's better, but we might have to get it resized."

Kíli froze then and the rest of the room with him as they all remembered who the crown had been sized to fit in the first place.

"Leave it," Kíli muttered.

 _"Inùdoy—"_

"I said _leave it_."

Dáin was the first to break the awkward silence and bring the conversation back to the matter at hand. "Yer lady mother is right that we canna send a raven. Even menfolk understand raven speech these days, and now Dale is crawlin' with 'em as well as Laketown."

"Balin?" Kíli turned pleading eyes on his chief advisor.

The elderly dwarf compressed his lips, sighed through his nose, and with a sharp shake of his head, pronounced the undertaking too risky. "I feel for Your Majesty, I do. But we all know what Gandalf said, and I've never known the wizard to steer us wrong. It's simply too dangerous if word of this miracle reaches the wrong ears. Until we hear otherwise from him, I cannot advise it. But, you are the king." And he nodded respectfully, as he always did even here in private council, the only member of Kíli's family, it seemed, who saw their sovereign as more than a son, a cousin, a young and somewhat reckless lad from Ered Luin.

"Oh, Kíli, don't _pout_ ," his mother pouted.

Balin had said it. Kíli was king. He could override his closest advisers and do whatever he pleased.

But if there was one thing he knew after forty-four days as a royal sovereign, it was how much he _didn't_ know. About governing, about politics, about the outcomes of decisions he couldn't foresee but would be held responsible for nonetheless. Every move he made seemed fraught with perils. Not the solid obstacles he was used to meeting in his head-on manner but the shadowy, insubstantial kind that required weapons called _wisdom_ and _prudence_ and _judgment_. Since these weren't weapons he had at his disposal, he mostly submitted to the decisions of the council. As he did again, grudgingly, today.

And yet . . .

"What if she comes of her own accord?"

"She hasn't yet," Dís said pointedly.

"If she knows I live, she will," Kíli said even though he wasn't at all certain he was right. He hoped to Mahal he was.

But he'd awakened with that runestone in his hand. What could it mean other than that she'd done her "duty" to heal him—and Kíli believed she _had_ healed him, no matter what Gandalf said—and then returned to her people, leaving the stone behind in rejection of his promise?

If that was the case, he wouldn't blame her.

 _Four times_ Tauriel had come to his rescue—in almost as many days! The first time he'd been awestruck, the second time grateful, the third time humbled, and the fourth time . . . well, now he was just humiliated. Who was he to seek her hand now?

That night by the Long Lake, the only night he'd been able to hold her and freely show her what was in his heart, he'd prayed that Mahal would grant him just one chance to prove himself worthy of her. Then he'd taken that one chance on Ravenhill and mucked it up beyond all repair. According to Dwalin, she would have perished at Bolg's hand if that powder puff of a Mirkwood prince hadn't jumped to her defense!

By Durin's axe and beard, he couldn't protect his own _amrâlimê_! How could he expect her to want a husband she had to constantly save? If she _did_ come to him now, he wasn't even sure he could hold his head up and look her in the eye after he'd failed her so spectacularly!

Still, he hoped somehow he was wrong. He hoped against hope.

And so, hoping, he resigned himself to wait, a unique misery for someone who, for seventy-seven years, had known only how to act.

He waited for Tauriel.

He waited for Gandalf.

He waited for his council.

He waited longer than he had waited in the Halls of Waiting, which he couldn't remember anyway, so this felt like a far worse torture.

And then, one winter's night, the king and a few of his family retired to his study after dinner. It was just Balin, Dwalin, Dáin, Ori, and a cousin of Ori's who may or may not have been blood-related to anyone else—Kíli couldn't keep the genealogy straight on that side—relaxing around a comfortable fire, chatting over mulled cider. Hardly an atmosphere that felt anything less than safe.

Yet one of them hadn't left the room alive.

The unlucky fourth or fifth cousin twice removed, seated next to Kíli, had picked up the mug meant for the king.

The poisoned drink was traced to two Iron Hills dwarrow employed in the kitchens, rabid supporters of Dáin who proclaimed Thorin's younger sister-son too inexperienced to lead, disputed his birthright to the crown through a maternal line, and insisted their Lord Ironfoot had the more legitimate claim. Though Dáin renounced them and publicly endorsed their execution for both high treason and the murder of an innocent bystander, the incident left them all shaken and wary and Kíli ridden with guilt.

A totally blameless young dwarf had died of a lethal dose of gallows-weed meant for him.

And what if that dwarf had been anyone else in the room, one of his nearest and dearest? How could he ever forgive himself then?

"Nori," Kíli said as they walked alone on the battlements one day, the chill winter wind feathering their hair, "what do the people say of me?" He wheeled by the parpapet to face the one member of the Company he could always trust to have his ear to the ground. "Speak plainly and don't spare my pride. Do they really want Dáin to wear the crown?"

Nori gave his young brother-in-arms-cum-king an assessing look, perhaps gauging how plainly was "plainly." Then he said, "Aye, 'tis true." He waited, but when Kíli's reaction was no more dramatic than a wince, continued, "Of mebbe half the dwarrow from the Iron Hills. But the other half, as well as all who dwelt in the Blue Mountains, the true descendants of Erebor . . . they will accept no one _but_ you. You are the true Son of Durin, they say. Aye, and after you woke from the dead as you did, some say you are Durin himself."

Kíli snorted at this, hands braced on the parapet as he surveyed the snowy western plain that afforded him an unobstructed view of Dale and, beyond it, the Long Lake. Further west, invisible to the naked eye of a dwarf, lay the Mirkwood. He wondered if the eye of an elf could see Erebor from there and, if so, could she read the longing in his gaze?

"There are some days _I've_ wanted Dáin to wear the crown. Most days, in truth," Kíli admitted.

 _Tauriel, if I weren't king, I would be at your side even now if you would but have me. **Would** you have me, even after how I've failed you? _

"I hear you. Can't say I'd want to wear that hunk o'metal on my head, neither. Don't know how you hold your head up under it. Bet it's a royal pain in the neck." And Nori chuckled at his own cleverness.

"At least I can take it off at the end of the day. Unlike your hair," Kíli bantered back out of habit, but his heart wasn't in it. He let his distant cousin have the last word, something that inevitably ended with Nori's plentiful hair trumping Kíli's sparse beard, then said, "Dáin's supporters . . . will they be satisfied with no one else, or do they object to me for some specific reason? If it is my youth, Mahal knows that won't last forever."

 _Is that why you thought better of it, my love? Is that why you abandoned this mortal soul of mine? I confess it wasn't worth your trouble to save so many times._

"'Tis more'n that, m'lord."

"Go on."

"There's a slanderous term gets bandied about in certain circles. I don't like to repeat it."

Seeing the sly dwarf's reluctance, the young monarch clapped a hand on his shoulder and met his shifty gaze head-on. "All right, Nori, out with it. If you don't tell me, I'll send someone to investigate those suspicious-looking barrels you imported from Gondor last month and didn't declare. Aye, I know about them." He smiled to show he teased, but Nori didn't relax.

 _"'Mebelkhags-umralu.'"_

"What?" Kíli said on an indrawn breath, though he knew very well what it meant.

 _Elf-lover._

"There's talk of you an' the elf that some say brought you back to life. They say she's a sorceress like the Witch o' the Wood and that she's got you under her spell now."

 _"What?"_ This time Kíli truly was lost.

"Aye. They say what she did was black magic and gave her power over your soul so that she, and the Elvenking through her, hold sway over you from afar. There's a rumor goin' round that you're going to bring 'er to Erebor so the elves can gain control of the city."

"That's the biggest steaming pile of dragon shit I've ever heard!" the king swore on an incredulous bark of laughter.

It was absurd! Completely baseless lunacy with the exception that Tauriel _did_ have power over his soul; that was true enough and more so than anyone knew. But not in the manner that these fearmongers meant. Surely most of the dwarves of Erebor were smarter than to believe such inanity!

The third attempt came on the edge of spring, in the midst of the mountain snowmelt.

Bombur was leading Kíli and Balin on a tour through several of the newly functional sections of the mines, proudly relating, in his own soft-spoken way, that the tunnel they were about to enter was so rich in gold deposits that the coins produced from its ore alone could fill the Great Hall of Thráin.

The crazed laborer appeared out of nowhere.

He flew at the young ruler with a battle cry on his lips and a pickaxe in his hand, and by the time Balin had drawn his sword and Bombur his ladle, there was a wet, gurgling sound and a thud, and Kíli stood over the assailant's body with his long-sword dripping red, too stunned to move. "I killed a dwarf," he said in a hoarse whisper just before every miner in sight descended on them with axes brandished to defend their king.

Balin and Bombur exchanged glances over his head, and then he felt Bombur's fleshy hand grip his shoulder in support.

"I never killed a dwarf before."

"Easy now. Your Majesty acted in self-defense against a villain who committed high treason. He sealed his fate the minute he was foolhardy enough to attack his king. If he hadn't met your sword, he would've met the sword of the executioner. Besides,"—the corners of Balin's mouth lifted in a grim smile—"it was high time you reminded the dwarves of this mountain exactly how your family won it back."

Kíli nodded, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the dwarf who lay dead at his feet, a crimson stain blooming across his chest. The old miner's graying trade and clan braids, as well as the design on his belt and sleeve cuffs, indicated that he'd been a lead blaster from the Iron Hills, respected at his work. Another prominent braid was woven into his beard for bravery at the Battle of Azanulbizar.

Not a wastrel or a lunatic, then, but a good dwarf. One who'd given his life for a cause he believed in, however misguided his actions.

No one mentioned the insult he had howled as he swung his pickaxe for the last time, either.

 _Mebelkhags-umralu._

 _Elf-lover._

When Nori had related the rumors about Tauriel's "sorcery" and "seduction," Kíli had laughed them off, sure such bizarre ideas couldn't gain much traction.

He wasn't laughing now.

The slain dwarf stared up at him with accusing eyes. They were the same shade of blue as Fíli's had been.

Kíli felt the remains of his lunch rising and made a choking sound as he turned away, then doubled over with his hands on his knees.

Balin issued a brief command to three bystanders, and they instantly covered the body and prepared to hoist it onto a stretcher for removal. A similar, low-voiced command from Bombur, and the remaining laborers dispersed to their daily tasks.

"Are ya all right, lad?"

Kíli nodded, breathing deeply to settle himself as Bombur thumped him on the back. Balin's hand hovered over his elbow, poised to assist if needed. "I'm fine," Kíli assured them after a moment more. "Let's keep going."

Balin jerked his head in approval, though his eyes were weary, and the tight lines around them showed his age. As the trio moved toward the tunnel ahead, he said, "Bombur, when we're done here, I think we could all use some of your darkest imperial stout and a good—"

But he never got to finish his thought. Just before they entered the tunnel, there was an ear-splitting boom, and the mountain heaved and shook around them. They dropped to their knees, hands over their heads to protect themselves from falling debris, and not a minute later, blackened miners streamed out of the smoke with cries of "fire in the hole."

The would-be assassin had planted a fail-safe in case his first attack didn't succeed, a timed explosive that would have blown the king and his companions to bits if they'd entered the tunnel just seconds earlier. Instead, it killed seven miners and injured sixteen others, who were carried out groaning and bathed in blood, fingers and toes and sometimes whole limbs missing.

Kíli watched in horror, helpless to do anything but give the order for more medics and squeeze the cold hands of the dying.

Later, as he intoned the funeral rites over each victim's best mail and weapons since there were no bodies left to display, he ached with the injustice of it all. He felt like a hypocrite murmuring condolences to the families when he was as much to blame for the death of their loved ones as the villain who'd killed them. Once again, he had escaped the Halls of Waiting while others paid the price.

For the first time, Kíli understood what it really meant to be king. It meant watching everyone around you die to keep you alive.

 _As he should've died for Thorin and Fíli._

After the third attack, the royal guard was placed on continuous high alert, and Kíli carried multiple weapons on his person at all times, even when he slept.

 _Especially_ when he slept.

Not that he slept often, for night after night now, there were the dreams. Convulsive, sweaty, nauseating dreams that shocked him awake, still shaking. Dreams he couldn't "walk off" as Dwalin suggested or "read to sleep" as Ori would say or "drink away" with his mother's hot toddies.

Dreams in which Thorin flailed on a block of ice in the middle of the river, surrounded by orcs and drifting further and further away.

 _If only he hadn't talked Uncle into joining the battle . . ._

Dreams in which he heard the sickening thud of Fíli's body against rock and saw his brother's lifeless eyes staring up at him, frozen open in horror.

 _If only he hadn't let his brother search the upper levels by himself . . ._

And the very worst, dreams in which Tauriel cried out, sprawled injured and disarmed on the unforgiving ground as a foul eight-foot orc roared in his face, its breath fetid and its skin oozing, and drove the hilt of its mace through him and through him and through him until he couldn't believe it could go any further.

Yet it did. And even through the blinding red haze of pain, he could see the beautiful face of his _amrâlimê_ contort with sorrow and fear.

 _If only he could've saved her . . ._

He couldn't even save himself!

Inviting Tauriel to Erebor was out of the question now, for Kíli knew it was a death trap, and she, the "sorceress" who had turned him into an "Elf-lover," would be entrapped along with him. For the first time, he truly hoped she _wouldn't_ come to this pit of violence, prejudice, and greed, that she would stay far, far away in her starlit world.

 _Safe._

And then she'd come anyway.

* * *

Kíli of Erebor, King under the Mountain, stood at the window that overlooked the courtyard, clenching the sill so hard his knuckles whitened.

 _Meleth nín_ , his love had called him not an hour ago. He thought he knew what that meant. The sound of it had been like the sifting of mithril to his ears, as if the words themselves sparkled on her tongue, and he'd _felt_ their light in his heart the same way he'd felt her light flow through his body the first time she'd healed him. But if that was how she felt, if Tauriel genuinely loved him despite his shameful weakness . . .

Kíli had no desire to wed some blue-blooded dwarrowdam. Tauriel had presumed that from his statement about duty and responsibility, and he hadn't corrected her. But his duty and responsibility were not just to the dwarrow but also to her. As the highest authority of this realm and even more so as the one who loved her, he was responsible for her well-being, and his duty was to keep her safe. If he took Tauriel to wife, it would so enrage those who already believed him incompetent and susceptible to Elvish manipulation that she would become a primary target, if not _the_ target, of their attacks. So, too, would any half-elven heirs produced by their union. He'd learned enough of politics in his almost six-month reign to know that for a fact.

Oh, he knew, too, that his warrior maid would've scoffed at his fears if he'd shared them, confident that she could take care of herself. But as fearsome as his _amrâlimê_ was with a dagger or a bow and arrow, what use would those be against a lift in free-fall? Against gallows-weed in a drink? Against explosives timed to the second?

There was something else, too. Gandalf still didn't understand how or why Kíli had returned from the dead and feared that the "miraculous" resurrection of the King under the Mountain might attract unwanted attention from dark forces against which bows and blades were powerless. Just this morning the Grey had met with the Royal Council and advised them to continue to limit the spread of the news beyond the allied Dwarvish kingdoms, at least until Erebor was stronger and more unified.

Kíli had fought and slain spiders, goblins, wargs, and orcs but never the demons of Sauron. Such things were far beyond his ken.

If Tauriel remained in Erebor and came under attack, whether by natural or supernatural means, and he tried and failed to protect her again, this time he really might lose her. And if that happened, he would break. He knew he would. He couldn't allow anyone else to die in his place.

Especially not Tauriel. Never her!

He would rather she lived in the Woodland Realm, even under the protection of that puffed-up Mirkwood princeling, than die under the Lonely Mountain. At least the fair Prince Powder Puff had proven he could defend her and keep her safe, which was more than Kíli, to his utter shame, could say for himself.

His heart contracted as he remembered the luminous hope in his _amrâlimê's_ eyes when she'd told him she wanted to stay in Erebor and how that hope had faded when she gave him back the bloody runestone. How he had longed to confess everything then—his fear, his shame, his love for her that had outlasted his death!

But to know Tauriel was to know she would've stubbornly planted herself next to him and, at the first sign of danger, thrown herself in front of him and sacrificed her life. He knew this for a certainty because she'd tried to do it already and nearly succeeded, and if their situations were reversed, he would've done exactly the same.

No, he couldn't allow her to keep risking her life for his. As long as the threat remained, he could tell her nothing of it.

In frustration, the King under the Mountain ripped the crown from his head. He would've cast it across the room, too, but Balin's voice was ever inside his mind now, urging calm, counseling prudence.

 _Forethought, lad. You must do nothing without forethought. A wise dwarrow king always thinks before he acts, for thoughts are like the wind—no one sees them come and go—but the actions they produce can erode even stone._

He squeezed his eyes shut and thought of how it would look to the engineering team if they arrived and saw him thus.

Curse it, how he detested these political _games_! He wasn't cut from the right quarry for it. And no matter how his family tried to sculpt him into Uncle or Fíli, he would never be either of them.

 _Abdicate_ , Tauriel had said. But he couldn't do that.

There was an old Khuzdul saying that expressed the self-sacrifice required of monarchs: _What's good for the people is good for the king._ That, too, was a phrase Balin liked to repeat. And, in this instance, what was good for the people was the continuous, unbroken line of Durin and the hope it represented for a thriving future of wealth and glory restored. Moreover, since their king's "miraculous" resurrection, those who weren't trying to kill him practically deified him. As intimidating as their expectations were, he wouldn't abandon them.

He wouldn't abandon Thorin's followers or Thorin's dream. Not when he, Kíli, had robbed him of that dream.

 _Oh, Tauriel, my love, you **knew** I didn't want to be king. You should've let me die. Now I've lost Uncle, Fíli, **and** you! _

Why had she not yet appeared in the courtyard?

Had someone tried to interfere with her? Kíli's fists clenched without conscious thought, and one hand went to the hilt of his sword. By the hammer and anvil, if anyone had—

 _Oh! There she was!_ Leading her horse through the courtyard. _Thank Mahal!_

His knees went weak, and he had to steady himself against the windowsill. Even for that split second that he'd thought she might be . . .

But wait.

She was stopping. Turning. Answering someone. But who?

Yes, someone was approaching her to speak.

She was talking to . . . Gandalf?

* * *

'Amad—Mother

inùdoyê—my son

galikh—good

shukel—coward of all cowards

inùdoy—son

A/N: Whew! I think we all deserve a break from the sturm and drang after that, don't you? :) I'm happy to say that the next few chapters will be a lot lighter and maybe even have some—{gasp}—humor! And maybe Gandalf can drop us a few clues about Kíli's mysterious revival . . . ;)


	9. Chapter 9 - A Journey Begun

A/N: Welcome, new followers and favoriters! It's so great to have you aboard for this ride through Middle-earth! And thank you again, reviewers, for your reviews! :)

The opening scene of this chapter was inspired by a reader who asked if we could get Kíli's POV on the conversation between Gandalf and Tauriel. So, thank you, Naomi—that part is for you! :)

Guest 4/23: Thanks for your feedback! :) You raise some good questions about Tauriel's resilience as an immortal. You're right that elves have quicker reflexes than mortals and are harder to kill. They're resistant to disease, more difficult to injure, and heal from injuries more quickly than mortals do. But they're not indestructible. They'll live for millennia until they start to fade if something doesn't kill them, but they _can_ be killed. We know they can be killed in battle, and my guess is they _could_ be killed by a fall, poison, or explosion. It might require a fall from a greater height, a heavier dose of poison, or a stronger explosion, but personally, I think it could be done. In addition, Gandalf has warned Kíli that dark supernatural forces may target Erebor in response to his mysterious resurrection, and even an elf would be affected by that. So I don't think Kíli's fears are unfounded. However, I _do_ think he's underestimating Tauriel's ability to help him figure out constructive ways to address the various problems he's facing. Thank you again for reading and sharing your thoughts!

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 9**

 **A Journey Begun**

* * *

The King under the Mountain squinted at the two figures who were unmistakable amidst the crowded courtyard, even from the great height of the throne room window. Both stood head, shoulders, and then some above everyone around them, and one had long tresses of flaming red, the other a pointed hat and staff which he planted in front of him as he spoke.

To Kíli's knowledge, Tauriel and Gandalf weren't even acquainted. But who was to say what acquaintances two immortals made in their lifetimes?

Oh, to borrow his love's elven ears to hear what she and the wizard said! From this angle and distance, it wasn't even possible to read their countenances, and neither was prone to emotional gesticulation.

Perhaps Gandalf was inquiring about the healing abilities that he didn't believe Tauriel had. The Grey had vowed to uncover the source of Kíli's "miracle," and what better place to start than with the elf maiden who was, in Kíli's view, responsible for it? Kíli hoped to Mahal Gandalf would reach the same conclusion so he could at least put to rest this fear that Erebor was at the center of some vast supernatural tug-of-war in which the resurrected dwarven king was a pawn! He didn't know how much longer he could live this life of secrecy and dread.

Tauriel shook her head at something, and her hair caught the sunlight as if threaded with rubies. How fitting that his _amrâlimê_ was the one bright spot in a sea of browns and grays! Was it really possible that he might never see her again, that his world would return to the dull monotone that it now was without her presence?

If only he could give her some hope to hold onto, some token of what he truly felt but couldn't say . . .

* * *

She was about to mount her horse when she heard her name and saw the tall, gray-robed figure striding toward her, staff in hand.

"Mistress Tauriel, is it not?"

"My Lord Mithrandir!" She bowed deeply in respect. "It is my joy to meet you here. I did not know you were at Erebor."

"Just passing through."

In fact, she was less surprised to see the Grey Wizard than she was to hear him address _her_. Wizards came and went as they pleased, and she knew of his connection to Kíli, but it wasn't often that such a lofty personage spoke to a common Wood Elf. However, despite his imposing height and authoritative voice, his eyes were kindly.

"You are the one the dwarves believe resurrected their king. Or at least some of them do."

She ducked her head modestly. "I don't know that I did anything like that."

"Well, what _did_ you do?"

The last subject she wanted to discuss at present was Kíli, but she understood the wizard's desire for answers; she shared that desire. "I tried to give him my grace, my lord," she said honestly.

"As you did when he suffered from a Morgul wound in Laketown?"

"Yes, my lord. With a poultice of athelas that time, yes." And then, feeling the power rise within her, she'd recited the blessing that Glaewen had once told her about and hoped for the best.

He seemed to consider this a moment. "It was at Rivendell—Imladris, in your tongue—that you met the young king?"

"No, my lord. In the Mirkwood. I am of the Woodland Realm."

The wizard raised his bushy brows at this. "And how came you to have such training in the healing arts, Tauriel of the Woodland Realm?"

"I don't, my lord," she said rather apologetically. "That is, I've learned a little from our healers, enough to tend minor injuries on the battlefield when necessary, but I'm afraid nothing beyond that."

"Surely you know that the gift of healing is very rare among Wood Elves and then only developed by extensive training."

Tauriel nodded. She didn't even know another Wood Elf with the gift. The two master healers who lived in the Woodland were from Imladris, and even Glaewen, their apprentice, was half Noldorin through her father. It was the custom for all senior officers to learn the fundamentals of Elvish medicine, but the other senior officers were Sindarin, like King Thranduil and Legolas. Tauriel had always been capable to do anything they did and had never felt out of place, but for the first time, she realized what an oddity she'd been among them.

Mithrandir appeared to be waiting for something more.

"I'm afraid I can't explain it, my lord. As I said, I don't know how I healed the king—in either instance."

"I don't believe you did," the Grey Wizard replied bluntly. "Perhaps the first time but certainly not the second. Not on your own. And that's what troubles me."

 _"Gandalf said you shouldn't have been able to bring me back on your own like that, not without a Ring of Power,"_ Kíli had told her.

Was that what Mithrandir thought? That she possessed a Ring of Power?

Before she could find a way to reassure him that she'd never seen a Ring of Power and wouldn't know what one looked like if she did, he changed the subject. "Master Óin said you had a gift for the king. Did you give it to him?"

Tauriel felt herself stiffen and glanced away. "He didn't want it."

"Is that what _he_ told _you_ , or is that what _you_ are telling _me_?"

"He said so."

"And yet you carry nothing in your hands."

The wizard still smiled benevolently, but oh, he was observant! She knew she was stretching the truth since she hadn't even told Kíli about the babe, but he'd made it clear as a summer day that he didn't want anything she could give him. "It isn't that kind of gift."

"Hmmm. I see."

She wondered if he _did_ see, if he could look within her and see the child, and she was sure her blush matched her hair.

"Tauriel." All trace of lightness was now gone from his tone. "I imagine what you saw today came as a great shock."

It was another abrupt change of subject. After a brief pause, she gave a single, equally serious nod.

"I also imagine King Kíli explained it is absolutely imperative that, once you leave, you not tell a soul what you have seen here. Besides a few friends whom I trust without question, you and I are the only ones outside the dwarven kingdoms who know of it—and not all the dwarven kingdoms know, at that. The dwarves are entrusting us with a secret that could become very, _very_ dangerous if it falls into the wrong hands."

Tauriel frowned. She had no intention of revealing Kíli's identity, but she'd thought his main objection to being in the public eye was that he and his family were ashamed to present an unfinished restoration and an unpolished king to the world. But Mithrandir spoke as if the consequences could be much more dire than bruised pride. Was there something else Kíli hadn't told her and, if not, why?

"When you return to the Woodland, you must not tell _anyone_ , not even your dearest friends. Do you understand?"

"Yes. But I'm not returning to the Woodland."

Now it was the wizard's turn to frown. "Oh? Why not?"

Tauriel was saved from answering by the shrill cry of a dwarf lad, the page who'd run for Óin when she first arrived. "From His Majesty, the King under the Mountain, ever in your service," he said with a bow and thrust a box into her hands before running off again.

"Hm! What have we there?" Mithrandir sniffed. For one who was said to foretell the most momentous events of the future, he seemed curiously in the dark about the simplest of matters.

In truth, Tauriel wasn't sure she wanted to open the little stone box intricately carved with interlocking geometric figures. She couldn't guess what Kíli wanted to give her after such a confrontation as they'd had, and her hands shook slightly as she removed the lid.

 _The runestone!_

Why in Arda would he send the accursed thing back to her? Or was that the point? Did he _want_ her to be cursed? Was he really that cruel?

Mithrandir peered over her shoulder at the contents of the box. "Ah. It seems the king is the one who has a gift for _you_."

"Hardly. This stone is a curse."

"What? That can't be! Here, let me see." And Mithrandir plucked the runestone out of the box and held it up to the light. "A curse, you say? Oh, no, that's nonsense! This is a dwarven runestone. They're used to keep evil away, not draw it in. See here? These runes say, 'Come back to me.' It's meant to protect the one who carries it so they can return safely." He turned it over and squinted. "Sometimes this kind of talisman is double-sided, with runes on back as well as front, meaning both giver and receiver are protected and drawn back to each other, but it looks like this one only has the runes on one side. Who told you it was a curse?"

"A very reckless dwarf," she muttered.

"Superstitious, too, it seems. But that's typical of Ereborian Dwarves." His eyes lit up with interest. "Although these runes aren't written in Angerthas Erebor; this is Angerthas Moria, the cirth of Khazad-Dûm. This stone must be quite ancient to have been crafted there! Its halls have been deserted for nearly a thousand years. What a find! Though, if it _is_ a gift from King Kíli, it's entirely possible it's been in his family since then. His line is very long, you know."

"His mother gave it to him," Tauriel supplied.

"Ah! Well, that explains it."

Mithrandir handed the stone back to her, and as she traced her thumb over its lines, something occurred to her that made her heart trip in her chest.

"My lord, I placed this runestone in the king's hand immediately after I tried to save him on Ravenhill. You don't suppose the stone had anything to do with . . . ?"

"No, no, certainly not. A simple runestone has neither the power to heal nor to curse. Keep it and be at ease. As a gift from the King under the Mountain, it is merely his way of wishing you a safe journey home and hoping that you will meet again." His expression became thoughtful. "Quite a tender gesture, really. I know Kíli is very grateful to you, and I'm sure he regards you with affection."

Tauriel had her doubts on both accounts, but she closed the box and put it in her saddlebag. She would discard it as soon as it was convenient to do so.

"So," the wizard said in a brisker tone, lighting his pipe, "home is not to be Thranduil's Halls any longer?"

 _Nae!_ She should've known he wouldn't forget her earlier remark! She shook her head.

"And why is that?"

 _Because I am with child by the King under the Mountain and can tell no one, neither elves nor dwarves._

Then the red-haired elf smiled softly as her spirit whispered a different but equally true answer within her. "Because I'll be six hundred and twenty-seven years old tomorrow, and this is the farthest I've been from home. I want to see the world, Lord Mithrandir. And then I want to make a new home for myself. Someplace far from the Mirkwood in both miles and mindset—a land peaceful and green and refreshing to the spirit. With a small village, maybe, where the people are friendly and wouldn't shun a stranger."

The Grey Wizard regarded her carefully as he pulled on his pipe, then blew a few brightly colored smoke rings. "I believe there's more to your story than what you've said."

She tensed. Had he known all along? Was he finally going to call her out?

"But I also believe what you've said is true and that you _should_ be away from here, at least for the time being. It will be much safer for you, I believe. And it is important that you be safe. Very important indeed."

Tauriel opened her mouth to protest that her decision had nothing to do with safety; she was fully capable of saving herself if need be. But before she could say anything, he continued, "Some battles can't be fought with weapons, not even good Elvish ones." He blew more smoke rings, and she had to remember to close her mouth, which had dropped open when he seemingly read her mind, lest the smoke float right in.

"I know a place that is as you describe."

As she watched in amazement, the rings of green, blue, and yellow reshaped themselves into rolling hills and a tranquil pond under a sunny sky. The rings of red, pink, and purple became gardens in full bloom, and the rings of brown became cozy, round dwellings set into the hillsides.

She knew this idyllic scene as if she'd been there herself! It was the Hobbiton of Kíli's tales! But . . .

"The Shire, my lord? Certainly it has its charm. But it may be a bit _too_ far away."

"I thought you wanted to see the world."

"I do! But not in six moons at a single clip."

According to Kíli, it was that long a trek from here to Hobbiton, and the babe might not tarry till then. With her luck of late, she'd give birth astride her horse as she rode into the hobbits' town square!

"Nonsense! It only takes that long when you travel with dwarves and a hobbit. Speed is not the strong point of either race. Also, we were"—here Mithrandir made a sour face as if remembering some unpleasant business—" _diverted_ along the way. With Gundabad so recently and soundly trounced, we shall have neither dwarves nor diversions to delay us and hence should be there in a quarter of the time. Why, I put Bilbo on my horse for the return trip and had him back at the Shire in three fortnights! I see you have a spirited Elvish steed, as well. I'm sure he can keep pace."

Three fortnights. One cycle of the moon and half another. Yes, she could manage that! The babe might begin to show before then, but she'd packed loose robes to disguise her condition, and she wouldn't yet be too unwieldy to sit a horse.

"You've never met Mr. Baggins, have you? Splendid fellow! You'll get on well. He's writing a book about his adventures, you know. Perhaps you can give him your side of the story. They say every story has two sides, of course, but _I_ always say there are as many sides to a story as there are people in it, and there's no reason to scrimp on them. It's not like a box or a house or something that requires a finite number, and, in fact, Bilbo himself lives in a house that seems to have no sides at all, but the sides of a _round_ house, you know, are infinite . . . "

It was no longer clear whether the smiling wizard was talking to her or to himself, so Tauriel waited until she didn't seem to be interrupting an important point, then said, "Your suggestion is well taken, my Lord Mithrandir. I should very much like to see the Shire, though I'll need some direction as I must confess I don't know the way—"

" _I_ know the way," the wizard interjected. "That's more than enough for both of us."

"But . . . I wouldn't want to trouble you to accompany me so far."

"Oh, I wouldn't if it wasn't on my way, but it is. However, I refuse to travel with anyone who insists on calling me 'Lord' anything. In these parts, I'm known simply as Gandalf."

For the first time since she'd fled the throne room, Tauriel's face relaxed into a genuine smile. "All right then, my—" She broke off and tried again. "—Gandalf."

"You see? This is going to be a fine arrangement! I'll have an elf to practice my Sindarin with, and you'll have a guide to the world who remembers when it was made! We'll see all sorts of sights on the way—the restoration of Dale, the Misty Mountains, Imladris—" He broke off and stroked his beard as he studied her. "Have you ever seen Imladris?"

"No, my—Gandalf, but I've long hoped to," she said truthfully.

"Good then! I think it is high time Imladris saw _you_ , as well."

* * *

Their first stop was in Dale, where Tauriel replenished her provisions for the journey at the legendary market that once more teemed with men and women from every corner of Middle-earth buying and selling their wares. Tables, wagons, and tents overflowed with a rainbow of richly dyed fabrics, jeweled combs and rings, canned preserves and spices, shining mail and weaponry, fine-crafted furnishings, children's toys, and whatever one could think to desire. The leathery smell of tack intermingled with the pine scent of wood, the fragrances of roasting pork and hot apple cobbler, and the less pleasant undernotes of wet hay and manure from the pens with livestock for sale. Merchants and patrons haggled, horses whinnied, minstrels sang, children laughed and cried, and their voices blended into a cacophony over which it was nigh impossible to hear oneself.

"It's as if the dragon never came," Tauriel said to Gandalf, raising her voice above the dull roar.

The wizard, who seemed to need nothing for himself or his mount but perused the tables with interest nonetheless, raised his bushy brows. "Never underestimate the resilience of men. Though their bodies are easily felled, their will is unbreakable. _That_ is why they will outlast all other races that walk the earth."

It would no doubt take years to fully restore the palace once crowned by exotic onion domes and spires, but the royal family's wing was already habitable, and it was here that the travelers dined with Bard, now King of Dale, and his family. Tauriel had grown fond of Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda while staying in Bard's home in Laketown, and it was clear the feeling was mutual when the three youngsters competed for her attention over dinner and volunteered to take her on a tour of the city the next day. Although Bard was too preoccupied with his own duties to accompany them, he didn't hide his happiness at seeing the elven warrior who had saved the lives of his children and insisted on giving her a mithril shirt that must've been worth half his kingdom as "a small payment toward a debt that can never be fully repaid."

Ordinarily, Tauriel would've refused to accept "payment" for doing what was right and good, but this time she gave sincere thanks and her promise to keep the shirt always. As part of Bard's share from the treasure of Erebor, it was the only remnant of a Dwarvish heritage that she could give to her son or daughter. The serendipitous manner in which she had acquired it could only be a blessing of the Valar!

On the morn of their departure, the good-byes were bittersweet. King Bard made it clear that Tauriel would be treated as a guest of honor whenever she returned to his city; that was the sweet. The bitter was that she knew she might not return in his lifetime or even in the lifetimes of his children, but she couldn't tell them that lest they ask why. For all they knew, she was merely going back to the Mirkwood, half a week's journey away. By noon, Dale was a speck on the eastern horizon, and the rest of Middle-earth was ahead.

And so it came to pass that, after six hundred and twenty-seven years, Tauriel of the Woodland Realm saw the world she lived in. Riding fast and free during the day and sharing the hospitality of Gandalf's friends at night, she became acquainted with places and people she had previously known only through stories.

She waded her horse chest-deep through the Gladden Fields, which Kíli had once said were so bright with yellow wildflowers it hurt to look at them, and peeked under the hat of the whimsical wizard Radagast while he translated the chatter of the nestling birds he sheltered there.

She saw the Carrock's proud, gray head rise out of the mighty Anduin; bowed over the massive paw of its keeper, Beorn, who even in human form was tall, hairy, and gruff as a bear; and, remembering Kíli's mouthwatering description, ate of the sweetest honey she'd ever tasted courtesy of the skin-changer's immense bees.

In the Misty Mountains, she marveled at the ring of pinnacles that formed a jagged crown over the ridged white brow of Middle-earth; breathed the air that always smelled like gathering snow; and ruffled the impossibly downy feathers of the Great Eagles, on whose backs Thorin's company had ridden, then spent the night perched in their cliffside eyrie, where she'd never been closer to the stars.

Though the elven warrior kept her weapons handy, as Gandalf had predicted, no orc or warg or any other foul creature disturbed them, and they made good time. She would not have guessed that the eminent wizard would make such a personable or talkative traveling companion, but he was full of interesting tidbits on the history of the places they passed, and she was happy to have someone with whom to speak Sindarin; once they reached their destination, she would have no opportunity to speak it again for some time.

In the evenings, if they had no one with whom to stay, Gandalf would use his staff to light a fire, and they would lapse into a comfortable silence as he smoked his pipeweed. He offered some to Tauriel on one occasion, but she refused it, concerned that it might have an ill effect on the babe, who was much on her mind.

Perhaps it should've come as no surprise to her that she carried small and was easily able to conceal her growing belly even after the six-moon mark, when most elleth began to show. At first, she wished Glaewen were there to consult about proper development, but then she realized the healer would know nothing more than she herself did about half-dwarven offspring. At least the long hours of riding seemed not to disagree with the little one and, in fact, stimulated its mother's appetite. She drank Glaewen's herbal preparations faithfully and felt better in body than she had since before the Battle of Five.

It wasn't lost on Tauriel that her babe had already traveled farther than she had in her whole life until now, and she fancied that she might somehow transmit these sights, sounds, and scents to the child's memory. In a rare private moment on the bank of the Anduin or on an overlook of the High Pass, she would feel the babe kick beneath her hand and whisper, "Someday, little one, you will see these things for yourself. You will not waste your youth as I did, confined to a dying wood that no light could penetrate. You will know the world you live in."

More than once, the mother-to-be wondered if the wizard suspected that she was with child. He sometimes inquired as to how she was feeling even though he must've known there were few conditions in which elves did not feel fine, and he talked often of how safe Hobbiton was and how friendly its families were. And now and then, she noticed him regarding her in a thoughtful way that she couldn't account for otherwise.

But, in the end, Gandalf said nothing.

And on nights when he snored with his back against a tree trunk, the brim of his hat tipped low over his brow, if he heard the elf maid crying softly, her hand wrapped around a stone that she had tried and failed a dozen times to throw into the river or over the side of the mountain, well, he said nothing about that, either.

* * *

And then one morning they rounded a bend in the mountain pass, and nestled in the vale below was the glory of the Noldor, Imladris. Tauriel had never seen such beauty on earth.

The elven city might have been an illusion, its pavilions and rotundas a trick of the mists that billowed forth from the confluence of waters rushing all around it. Perhaps the waters themselves _had_ carved it, for such perfection could not have been the work of any race in Middle-earth, she thought. In the golden light of morning, Imladris glowed as if by its own immortal spirit, and the music of its many waterfalls echoed without cease.

"What do you think of it?" Gandalf asked.

"It is as I imagine Valinor."

All of a sudden, Tauriel felt nervous to meet the elves who lived here. She already knew where her kind stood in relation to the distinguished Noldor, and now that she'd seen their dwelling place, she could well imagine the beings who had created so divine a city might turn her away from it.

So she was stunned when the very first elves they passed at the gates gave a warm welcome not only to Gandalf but to her, as well. "My apologies, I speak only Sindarin," she fumbled in her very limited Quenya. Silvan elflings were not routinely taught the language of the Noldor, and by the time she'd repeated the same halting apology to half a dozen friendly residents of Imladris, she wished she'd paid more attention when Legolas had offered to teach her some. Thankfully, the elves here were obliging enough to switch to Sindarin after their initial exclamations of surprise.

"Can they not tell we are travelers?" Tauriel asked Gandalf under her breath after she got the same reaction from yet another elf. But before he could answer, a burgundy-robed figure wearing a circlet of high authority approached them.

"Ah, Lindir!"

Apparently Gandalf knew this elf. Greetings were exchanged in Quenya.

"I'm here to see Lord Elrond, and I hope we might send for Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn and perhaps the rest of the White Council if they deem fit." And then, nodding toward Tauriel, he said, "I have someone with me I would like them to meet. She has a very important question, and I believe they will have the answer."

* * *

nae—alas

A/N: For all you Tolkien experts out there, yep, I know that Quenya had pretty much gone the way of Latin by the Third Age, but I'm using creative license here because I think it makes the story more interesting. ;)


	10. Chapter 10 - A Warm Welcome

A/N: Thank you again for the lovely reviews on the previous chapter, and welcome aboard to those who followed or favorited since last time! :)

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 10**

 **A Warm Welcome  
**

* * *

"Ah, _nae_ , Mithrandir!" The official spoke in Sindarin now, presumably on Tauriel's behalf. "Lord Elrond left last week with Lady Arwen on a visit to Lórien. We do not expect them back until this moon has passed."

Gandalf's face fell.

"May I humbly suggest you join them there?"

"Not possible. I have business in Bree-land in a fortnight and a half. We cannot delay that long."

Lindir bowed low. "My sincere apologies, Mithrandir. But you are, as ever, welcome here in Imladris for as long as you choose to remain."

"This is a most unfortunate accident of timing," Gandalf grumbled later as they feasted on the choicest fruits of Imladris in an airy courtyard, serenaded by Noldorin instrumentalists. "Worse than when that harebrained fool of a Took nearly threw himself down the well in the Chamber of Mazarbul at the very moment—"

"I'm sorry, who?"

Gandalf started, and then his eyes glazed as he squinted into the distance, frowning. It was a disconcerting look that Tauriel had noted before and which always preceded some equally disconcerting statement. "Actually, I don't know why I said that. I rather think that's not happened yet."

What in Arda did that mean? _Disconcerting!_ She decided to change the subject. "Did you think Lord Elrond and the Lady of Lórien would be able to tell us how I healed—or did whatever it was I did—to save the King under the Mountain?"

"In a word, yes. Among other things."

Tauriel wasn't sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. As much as she wanted to understand what power did or didn't lie within her, she'd heard that the High Elves of this White Council had a power that was limitless, and she feared they would look within her and see the babe, whether or not the wizard could. The Lady of Lórien, in particular, was said to read minds.

Gandalf sighed deeply. "We will simply have to come back at a later date."

She didn't know how that would be possible once she had a youngling to care for and protect from prying eyes, so she kept her silence.

* * *

Though a city of men, Bree was very different from Dale. Its half-timbered houses and cobblestone streets were quainter and more unassuming than the stately domes and turrets of its sister city in the East. But it was no less busy and served as the crossroads for every race in Middle-earth, including halflings from the Shire, dwarves from the Blue Mountains, and the occasional elf from Lindon.

In the tavern of the Prancing Pony Inn, Tauriel took the opportunity to observe how these diverse folk interacted and was pleasantly surprised at how well they seemed to rub along together. King Thranduil had always cautioned against close association with other races, claiming that it was a recipe for misunderstanding, conflict, and betrayal. But from what she saw of the easy camaraderie between the man and hobbit tending bar together, the dwarf lads advising a cluster of human boys on good hunting father north, the Noldorin Elf playing chess with another halfling by the fire, and the human bar maid flirting with one and all, she tended to think the Elvenking had been too long in his own company and allowed his paranoia to get the best of him.

She paid particular attention to the halflings—no, _hobbits_ , she corrected herself, for Gandalf said they much preferred the latter term—since these were the people with whom she would be living. The bartender and another serving tables were jolly sorts, grinning more often than not, while the one playing chess was older and more subdued, but they all seemed to have an affable disposition and were less raucous than the men or dwarves. Their furry bare feet were a sight to behold, too! She tried to get her fill of staring at them now so she wouldn't be tempted to stare later when she met her new neighbors.

"Say there, how is the road to Hobbiton?" Gandalf asked the server as the young hobbit refilled his mug. He stood not even four feet, a sandy-haired fellow with wide-set, twinkling eyes.

"Not as muddy as it was this time last month with the spring rains and all," the hobbit said cheerfully. "Is that where you're headed, then?"

"It is," the wizard confirmed, though his eyes were on Tauriel, and he raised his brows at her to indicate that he'd stopped the hobbit as much for her benefit as his own.

"Oh, goodness! It's not every day that the Shire sees a wizard or an elf, not to mention both at once! You'll be the talk of the town!"

"Oh, dear. I hope we don't cause a stir," Tauriel said with some alarm.

"I'm sure you will," the hobbit replied, no less cheerful for being so blunt. "But that's because we hobbits _love_ to have guests!"

Gandalf smiled softly in Tauriel's direction, and she felt herself relax.

"As long as they're not disreputable, of course." And with that, the young hobbit moved on to other patrons.

"What do they consider disreputable?" Tauriel asked the wizard, concerned.

He took his pipe from between his teeth so he could gesture with it. "Oh, loud people, late people, people who show up uninvited without food in the middle of the night."

"But . . . we're about to show up uninvited without food."

Gandalf blinked at her. "Not in the middle of the night. Actually, I believe we should be there on the morrow in time for afternoon tea." He puffed a bit more on his pipe, then said with a wistful smile, "It seems our time together is drawing to a close. So, Tauriel of the Woodland Realm, are you happy to have made this journey to the West?"

"I am," she acknowledged. "Though I may not have begun it under the happiest of personal circumstances, I am much the richer for what I've experienced along the way."

"And what do you think of this world now that you have seen some of it?"

She thought carefully before she answered. "It is a strange place. But very beautiful, not only in spite of its strangeness but because of it."

One corner of Gandalf's mouth twisted up in a knowing way. "Not what you expected, is it?"

"I don't know what I expected. In King Thranduil's Halls, the world beyond the Woodland was always spoken of as a place of constant dread and peril. And after encountering orcs and a dragon on my first trip outside our borders, I might have thought that the truth if I'd not met the dwarves of Thorin's company and heard their tales about Bilbo's feast and Beorn's bees and flying on the backs of the Great Eagles."

"You got to know the Company quite well then, hm?" Gandalf asked benignly.

But the former captain sensed something more deliberate in his intent and was guarded in her reply. "Some of them, yes. But now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to retire early and refresh myself for the last leg of our journey. The innkeeper's wife said she would send someone up with hot bathwater, and I'm so looking forward to a good soak." She pushed back her chair from the table and stood with a respectful nod.

"Tauriel."

She turned back, but the Grey Wizard took another leisurely pull on his pipe before he continued. "Our road ends in Hobbiton on the morrow, but _your_ road, perhaps, continues further, though not necessarily in this same direction. There is no shame, you know, in traveling the same road twice. The second time, one may notice things they missed at first."

"I'm afraid I don't understand . . . "

"Not just yet, no. The understanding will come when you are ready for it. Till then, take heart. You will be cared for deeply by those who know you in Hobbiton, as you have always been cared for by others where'er you've been known, even when _you_ did not know it."

"My lord . . . ?" she replied in little more than a whisper, unconsciously reverting to formal address as she wondered at the meaning of his words.

"Until tomorrow, Mistress Tauriel. Rest well," he concluded with the hint of a smile.

And rest well she did but only after spending the next hour in her bath pondering the significance of what the wizard had said.

* * *

The hobbit's dwelling looked like scarcely more than a hole in the ground. Granted, it was a brightly painted, well-groomed hole, but still . . .

Gandalf craned his neck to gauge the position of the sun. "Four o'clock," he announced. He twitched a bushy eyebrow and gave Tauriel a conspiratorial smile. "Just in time for tea." And with that, he raised his staff and knocked on the door.

"What if we hadn't been in time for tea?" she asked.

"Oh, then we would have been in time for luncheon or dinner." His eyes glazed, and he stroked his beard. "Or is it supper? Now, which is it—dinner before supper or supper before dinner?"

"Surely not both?"

"Oh yes. You can't expect a hobbit to skip one or the other. He'll be very hungry and overeat the next day at second breakfast."

"Second breakfast?" Tauriel was rather appalled. "Out of how many?"

"Just two." He knocked again, less patiently. "Plus elevenses."

"Elevenses? My goodness! What do these hobbits do besides eat?"

"Mostly cook. And garden—vegetables for the cooking, you know. You _do_ like gardening?" he checked and raised his staff to knock a third time.

"I suppose . . . "

The door flew open with the staff poised in mid air, and a small, plump, hairy creature appeared on the doorstep looking vaguely familiar and not a little annoyed. But a sunny grin spread over his face as soon as he recognized the wizard. "Gandalf! What a pleasant surprise! I thought I might not see you again for—oh, ages!"

"A wise man once said an age is but a day apart when you take your friends on the road in your heart . . . or when your friends are elves. Allow me to introduce you to a lovely friend indeed, Mistress Tauriel of the Woodland Elves. Tauriel, this fine fellow is Mister Bilbo Baggins of Bag End."

The hobbit turned his attention to her, shifting from foot to foot and reddening around the collar as he said, "Ah, um, yes. I-I-I've seen you before, of course, but I d-don't believe we've formally met."

And that was when she knew why he looked familiar. At the Battle of Five, he was the one she'd overheard telling Gandalf that Kíli and his family were on Ravenhill, in the path of the Gundabad Orcs as they descended from the north. It was odd that he remembered her, though. At the time, he'd been so focused on Ravenhill that he hadn't even glanced in her direc—

 _Oh._

Kíli had said it was Bilbo who helped the dwarves escape King Thranduil's Halls, so of course he'd been inside their prison and seen her with the guard. Then she blushed, wondering what else he'd seen; the little hobbit had freed the dwarves from their cells just hours after she and Kíli had lingered over stories of stars and firemoons. Well, as the burglar who'd stolen her prisoners out from under her nose, at least he had just as much to be embarrassed about! "A true pleasure, Mr. Baggins," she said with a half bow to indicate that they should let bygones be bygones.

The hobbit's face went slack with relief. "Oh, the pleasure's all mine, I'm sure! Any friend of Gandalf's is a friend of mine! And, please, call me Bilbo."

"Tauriel," she returned with a small smile.

"Well then! Do come in. You're just in time for tea."

* * *

A hobbit's tea, as Tauriel discovered, was very different from an Elvish tea, which consisted of a hot herbal drink and fresh greens. To the Wood Elf's befuddlement, Bilbo set his table with not only a teapot and teacups but a selection of cream, honey, and sugar to put in the cups; blueberry scones hot from the oven served with jam and clotted cream; five different kinds of finger sandwiches; and a dessert tray of shortbread cookies, cream puffs, strawberry tarts, and lemon cake. She imagined it would all be too sweet, especially in combination, and so was amazed when she ate everything on her plate and only refrained from asking for seconds because she was a guest and didn't want to be rude.

"I see you've restocked the pantry since you last had guests," Gandalf chuckled.

Bilbo gave a rueful smile. "Only recently, I'm afraid."

Tauriel remembered then how Kíli had told her about the feast at Bag End that had already become legend among Thorin's company. According to him, the dwarves hadn't been very gracious guests.

 _Kíli._ She felt the same pang as she always did when she thought of him, so she diverted her thoughts to the babe, a strategy that was rapidly becoming second nature to her. The little one was quite active in response to the tea cakes; apparently her child was going to have a sweet tooth.

" . . . after you left me in the Shire," Bilbo was saying as he refilled Gandalf's cup. "And by the time I got home, I'd been gone so long, they'd put Bag End and all its contents on the auction block."

"Oh, you don't say! Bilbo, I'm terribly sorry, my friend."

"Oh, well, all's well that ends well and all that. I got my _smial_ back and most of my furnishings except the silverware that I _know_ Lobelia Sackville-Baggins took, though she won't admit to it. But the pantry was cleaned out completely! Took me months to replace everything!" The hobbit shrugged and stirred more cream into his tea. "Some things I'm _still_ waiting to replace because they're not in season yet."

"So the people here think it's all right to steal from others, then?" Tauriel asked. She couldn't fathom walking into another elf's quarters and helping herself to their belongings whether they'd been gone a year or a hundred. But wasn't Bilbo himself a professional burglar? Perhaps all hobbits were! She was starting to doubt whether she wanted to raise a child here after all.

"Oh, no-no-no, not at all! It's just that there's a law regarding abandoned property, you see. It reverts to the community." Bilbo gave another rueful smile and, seeming to read the direction of her thoughts, said, "Despite what you may think of my previous occupation, my career as a burglar was a short one. And I never took anything that didn't rightfully belong to the dwarves."

Tauriel nodded slowly. Kíli had said as much, and she well knew Thranduil had imprisoned the dwarves on false charges, so she could hardly blame Bilbo for "stealing" them away.

"We don't believe in stealing—well, except for Lobelia—but we _do_ believe in sharing." This time Bilbo's smile was genuine as he looked from Gandalf to Tauriel and back again. "And I'm so happy to be sharing my tea today with both of you!"

"I'll drink to that." And Gandalf raised his teacup, so Bilbo and Tauriel followed suit.

"So what news from Erebor? Is everybody well? Before you go, Gandalf, do remind me to give you some tins to take back to the Company next time you're there. Just some preserves and spices and such, nothing that will spoil."

"Very good, I'm sure they will be pleased. Bofur says to tell you he chipped a plate in your honor at his very first meal in Erebor, and he intends to chip a plate every year on the anniversary of the Company's dinner at Bag End."

"I hope he has a lot of plates then!" Bilbo laughed, but he puffed his chest out a bit in spite of himself, proud to be remembered.

"Bombur has grown very fond of your mincemeat pie recipe and says he makes it for his whole family every Thursday. Why Thursday I'm not sure, but he wanted me to tell you. Ori asks if you can make a copy of your manuscript for him and gave me a copy of his records of the quest to pass on to you in case you had need of the dates or locations."

"Oh! How very generous of him! And please tell him yes, I'd be delighted to send him a copy of the book when it's finished."

"Dori also sent something he made himself, a woolen cloak, because he was appalled at your lack of a good one, and he reminds you to wear it when it is raining."

"That's Dori," the hobbit said fondly. "Always looking out for others. How kind of him!"

"Oh, and Balin sends his greetings."

"And I return them. Ah, how I miss them all!" Bilbo paused with his teacup halfway to his mouth, a faraway look in his eye. "Especially Thorin. And Fíli and Kíli, too, of course."

At this, Tauriel tried unsuccessfully to catch Gandalf's attention. They had neglected to discuss what Bilbo knew or didn't about certain miraculous events.

"Yeeeeesss," Gandalf stretched the word before pulling on his pipe. Then he exhaled and said in a slow, portentous voice, "Still, round the corner there may wait a new road or a secret gate."

"Hm!" Bilbo rubbed his chin. "Why, yes indeed! That's quite a striking way to put it, Gandalf. In fact, I like it very much! Would you mind terribly if I used that in my book?"

"Of course not, Bilbo. Not at all." The wizard smiled kindly and went back to puffing on his pipe.

So the answer was no, the hobbit did _not_ know what had occurred in Erebor since he'd been there. Tauriel would have to watch her words around him if she didn't want to give away Kíli's—

 _Kíli_ again. Would he always intrude so painfully on her thoughts every few minutes?

Once more she consciously shifted her mind, this time to the peaceful, golden woods she'd seen as they approached Hobbiton. Since the Shire was predominantly farmland, she'd feared the babe would have no trees to play in and was glad to see plentiful stands of oak, ash, hickory, and birch, as well as streams where an elfling could wade and observe the fish, turtles, frogs, and other aquatic creatures.

Yes, she thought, the babe would be very happy here.

As afternoon waned into evening, appetites were sated, packages were exchanged, and Gandalf and Bilbo fell into reminiscing as they smoked. Kíli's name continued to be mentioned too often for Tauriel's comfort, so she was thankful when at last there was a lull in the conversation.

"Good heavens, look at the time!" Bilbo gestured to his wall clock. "I'm late starting dinner! Won't you both stay and eat with me? It's roast duck with an orange glaze!"

"Tauriel will. I'm afraid I won't, as tempting as it sounds, but I'm expected elsewhere. A wizard's work is never done, you know."

"Oh! Right. Well. I-I'm sorry to see you go so soon, Gandalf, but of course I understand." The little hobbit's face fell, but he made an effort to perk up for his remaining guest. "And Tauriel can stay as late as she likes, of course. As I said, any friend of Gandalf's is a friend of mine."

"Splendid! Then I'll be on my way and leave you two to get better acquainted. But, of course, you'll have plenty of time for that in the months to come." The wizard snuffed out his pipe and retrieved his staff from the corner where he'd propped it.

"In the m-m-months to come?" their diminutive host stammered.

Lips parting in confusion, Tauriel locked eyes with Bilbo, and then, as one, they turned and fixed Gandalf in a single panicked stare.

This wasn't how he was supposed to leave it! Wasn't he supposed to explain that Tauriel wanted to live in Hobbiton and needed a place to stay until she found one of her own? They hadn't talked it over outright, but she'd just assumed when the time came Gandalf would at least present her request to Bilbo and vouch for her character before beating a hasty retreat.

"Bilbo, my friend, I thank you as always for your hospitality. Most excellent cooking and even better company! Tauriel, I have so enjoyed your presence on this journey, and I trust that we will one day make another journey back to Imladris. _Nîn velui a lalaith veren nalú en-agovaded vín._ " And the Grey Wizard swept an arm out to her in the customary farewell of elves.

"B-b-but-but-but, Gandalf, h-how long, exactly, will your f-friend be staying?"

The tall, robed figure turned, half bent in the doorway. "That all depends."

"On what?"

"On _her_ , naturally! So I suggest you not ask _me_." And with that, he ducked out the door. "Oh, blast the hat!" he exclaimed as the point of it crumpled against the head of the doorframe.

"But— Wait! Gandalf!" Bilbo hurried to the door with Tauriel close on his heels, and they both peered into the falling twilight. "Confound it! Where _is_ that wizard?"

* * *

smial—hobbit-hole

Nîn velui a lalaith veren nalú en-agovaded vín—Sweet waters and light laughter until next we meet

A/N: "Still round the corner there may wait / A new road or a secret gate" is a line from a Hobbitish song in Book One, Chapter 3 of _The Lord of the Rings_.


	11. Chapter 11 - A Home Found

A/N: Thank you, everybody, for your reviews last week! It's so great to have your support and feedback. :) And a big hello to the new followers and favoriters! I see you (but not in a creepy way)! ;)

Guest 5/7: Thanks for your review! :) There will be lots more Bilbo and Tauriel to enjoy, starting right now! I think you're right that they'll make good friends. ;) And thank you for sharing that super funny "strongly worded letter" scenario. I got a real laugh out of that. :D

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 11**

 **A Home Found**

* * *

Even with her sharp night and distance vision, the Wood Elf saw neither hide nor hair of the mysterious, grey-cloaked traveler who'd stepped out the door just moments ago.

"Vanished again!" Bilbo pronounced, then closed and locked the door. He turned to his unexpected guest with a look of chagrin. "So, er, just how-how-how long are you planning to stay, may I ask?"

"I don't know," Tauriel admitted.

"So . . . indefinitely?" It was more statement than question, and the hobbit twisted his mouth to the side and nodded his head as though at some bystander to whom he was saying, _See this? I told you so!_ "I've not even been back in my own _smial_ as long as I was away, and already Gandalf wants to move more people into it!"

"My apologies, Bilbo, but I thought he was going to discuss this with you."

"When? You both had more than two hours to discuss it with me! That wasn't time enough for either of you?"

He was right, and even though the lapse hadn't been intentional on her part, Tauriel faulted herself. Still, that didn't change that she was here now and needed somewhere to stay, at least temporarily. "I really am sorry for the inconvenience. But if you let me stay, I promise it will be only until I can find a—a—a **_smial_** , did you call it? A _smial_ of my own."

The hobbit crossed his arms over his chest and gave her an assessing look. "None of the _smials_ have vacancies at present. But perhaps a room in one of the houses in the village. Or at the inn if need be. Do you have any coin on you?"

"A little. But I was hoping I might barter for my own piece of land. I have a fast, well-trained warhorse outside plus some Elvish weapons that are worth a great deal."

"Not here. We hobbits are a peace-loving people. There's not been a war in the Shire since anyone can remember."

Judging by the little fellow's testy expression, the elven warrior gathered that communication was deteriorating at a rapid pace. Rather than fan the flames, perhaps it would be better to cut her losses and move on. Where to was another question, but she wouldn't impose where she wasn't wanted.

"But it's dark already. Where will you sleep?" asked Bilbo after she had thanked him for the delicious tea and made clear her intention to leave.

Her reply was matter-of-fact and without self-pity. "Elves don't sleep much. More likely than not I'll scout out a good climbing tree and make do in its branches for the night."

The hobbit grimaced and rolled his eyes. "Well, that won't do. I can't very well let you spend the night in a _tree_ , whether or not you sleep in it." He seemed to be waging a duel with himself and finally relented, though still grudgingly as he said, "I suppose it wouldn't hurt for you to stay here for tonight. There are five guest chambers; you can take your pick." And then, more sheepishly, "I _was_ looking forward to making the roast duck for company, after all."

Tauriel inclined her head. "I would like that very much, Bilbo. I am most grateful."

Her smile was considerably more charming than she knew, for elves were a fair race to behold, and Bilbo's face lit up in spite of himself so that he had to make an effort to suppress his answering grin. "J-j-just for tonight, of course. In the morning, we'll find a place for you to live."

"Of course."

* * *

But in the morning, Bilbo was on his hands and knees in the garden when Tauriel emerged from the guest chamber she'd chosen. She hadn't rested well as the bed was too short, but the room itself was cozy, its oaken furnishings tasteful and well cushioned, if undersized, and its cheerful color scheme of yellow and blue reminiscent of a sunny sky. On the whole, once you got used to the round doorways and concave walls, it was remarkable how comfortable a hole in the ground could be!

"There's leftovers from second breakfast on the table if you're interested," the hobbit said without lifting his head, as if he didn't really care whether she ate them or not.

"Yes, I found them, thank you. They were luscious, especially the flat, round, fried cakes with whipped cream and syrup!"

"Oh! You mean the pancakes!" he exclaimed, and this time he looked up with a proud grin.

"Is that what they're called?"

"Yes. And these blueberry bushes here are the ones I use to make the syrup."

"Oh, I see! In the Woodland, we tap maple trees for their sap and boil it down into a similar substance called _lhend toss_ , but we mostly use it as a dressing for salads or to sweeten our tea. But I feel sure it would taste wonderful over these pancakes of yours!"

"Hmmm . . . a _maple_ syrup. What an interesting idea! Why, we have gobs of maples in the Shire! But whoever thought of making syrup out of a tree? Do . . . do you think you could show me how?"

"I'd be happy to." Then she crouched beside him. "Would you like some help?"

"Oh, I'm just doing the weeding, nothing particularly exciting," he scoffed.

"Good." In a swift but thorough once-over, Tauriel noted which plants he was uprooting and began to do likewise. "I'm not looking for excitement."

He shot her a sidelong glance. "Thought you warrior types couldn't get enough of it."

"That's true of some. But I myself have always appreciated the quiet moments, as well. It's only in the stillness that you can hear the singing of the stars, the calling of the birds, or the hum of the earth itself. And those are the sounds that refresh the spirit."

Bilbo had stopped digging and was contemplating her with a half smile. "I've always felt the same."

She paused to return his smile, and then they both went back to work.

"Of course, we hobbits can't actually hear the stars sing or the earth hum. Can you?"

"Oh yes."

He stopped again and looked at her with real interest. "Wh-what do they sound like?"'

She furrowed her brow, at a loss to describe sounds that were as commonplace to her kind as rain drumming a roof or wind rustling leaves. Finally she said, "The stars sound like a chorus lifted in prayer, and the earth sounds like a lullaby."

"That must be very beautiful."

"It is." A minute later, she continued, "You know, I left the Woodland because I wanted to live in a place where the stars weren't dimmed and the earth wasn't choked by the blight that's taken hold of the Mirkwood."

Bilbo grimaced and pulled out a few more nettles, perhaps remembering his own harrowing experience in that cursed forest. "I think I understand."

After that, they fell into a silent rhythm of digging and pulling, which they kept up until the sun was nearly at its midpoint, at which time Bilbo retreated into his hobbit-hole for elevenses. Tauriel continued weeding until he returned, and an hour and a half later, they agreed to break for luncheon. They prepared the greens, soup, and sandwiches together, and the elf was gratified when the hobbit couldn't eat enough of her apple walnut salad.

While they were at table, Bilbo expressed his dueling desire and dread to tackle the weeds that had sprung up years ago among the ornamental grasses on the hillside and proliferated until there were now more weeds than grass, so Tauriel volunteered her services for the rest of the afternoon, countering her host's objections with the reassurance that two pairs of hands were better than one. And in that manner the hours passed, with another short break for afternoon tea, until it was time for dinner.

"I must thank you for all the work you did today," Bilbo said as they did the dishes, the elf washing and the hobbit drying. "I never would've had the courage to tackle that hillside by myself or even with another hobbit, and now it looks a hundred percent better! You're an amazingly fast worker!"

"I'm accustomed to earning my keep," Tauriel said simply.

There was a brief silence as he pondered this. Then, "Was your chamber comfortable last night? Not too hot or too cold? I must admit I don't know much about elves."

"We are not easily distressed by changes in temperature. But I must admit the bed was rather . . . small."

"Oh. Oh, of course it would be! Why did I not think of that?" He squinched up his eyes and shook his head as though he could shake off his mistake. "Well, we have some fine carpenters right here in Hobbiton who can make a bedframe to your specifications. I'll take you to meet one tomorrow."

"Thank you! I would be most grateful." For half a minute, the only sound was the splash and clink of dishes, and then she said, "I'll need some other furnishings besides a bedframe, as well. You see, I'm . . . expecting."

Bilbo stared at her, one hand continuing to rub a towel round the plate in the other. "Expecting? Expecting a _wh_ - _what_ , exactly?" But before she could answer, he blinked nervously and began to rattle off a list of possibilities. "A p-package, perhaps? W-with the rest of your belongings? That would require new furnishings, certainly. Or-or-or a payment? Maybe an inheritance? Then you could definitely afford a place of your own! Or-or maybe you're expecting—"

"A child, Bilbo. I'm expecting a child."

"A ch— A _child_?" He was still drying the same plate, round and round. Then, it slipped from his hand, and it was only due to Tauriel's fast elven reflexes that she was able to catch it before it shattered. "Oh no no! That won't do, that won't do at all! Oh, good heavens, I think—I think I need to sit down."

She took his elbow and helped him to a plush chair by the fire, which he sank into rubbing his brow as if his head pained him. "Oh no no no. I—I'm no good with children. The screaming and the stomping and the— I'm—I'm working on a book, you see! I need at least eight hours a day of quiet—I mean absolute silence!"

"Elves are very quiet."

"Yes, I remember." He glowered up at her, still pinching his brow. "In the Woodland at your Mary-and-Goliath or whatever you call it."

"Mereth Nuin Giliath? The Feast of Starlight?"

"Yes. That. Pounding music, stomping feet! Gave me a splitting headache!"

"But that was a feast day. Elves are normally very quiet, I promise you." She left out that dwarves were most definitely _not_ quiet, and this child would be half dwarven.

"I'm sorry, I—" He sighed and gave her a bashful smile. "I'm sure you're a very nice person, but I'm just not a _baby_ sort of chap."

She smiled back and patted his hand. "It's all right, Bilbo. I understand." And, disappointed though she was, she really did.

He closed his own hand over hers for a moment in return, then set his mouth in a resolute line and nodded briskly. "Right, then! In the morning, we'll find you a place to live."

"Of course."

* * *

But in the morning, when Tauriel emerged from her bedchamber rubbing her sore neck, Bilbo looked up from the pancakes he was flipping, frowned, and said, "We'll have to go to the carpenter's today. If you're going to live in Hobbiton, you'll need someone to build you a bed your size."

"And other furnishings, too," she agreed.

"Those as well."

And so it was that after second breakfast, they made their way down the hillside into the village, where Bilbo introduced her to Aldo Sawcutter, a ruddy, round-faced carpenter with a ready belly laugh. He showed her a choice of designs, took her measurements, and declared himself quite capable of adapting his work to her specifications, all interspersed with great rolling laughs for no apparent reason. He seemed particularly amused at the prospect of building her a cradle.

"For an elfling, eh?" More laughter. "Didn't know elves had any of those!"

Tauriel smiled, bemused. "We may live in trees, but we don't grow on them."

He slapped his substantial thigh. " _Ha_ ha ha ha, no! Don't s'pose you do!"

After they'd agreed on a fair price, Aldo estimated a month for completion of the bed and another for the desk and chair, with the cradle and rocker to arrive the month before the babe was due.

"And where do you want these delivered?"

Tauriel was at a loss for words. "My apologies, sir, I'm not sure where I'll be liv—"

"You can put down Bag End. That's Number One Bagshot Row."

She glanced at the hobbit in surprise, and his mouth twitched as his eyes met hers before darting back to the carpenter. "Just temporarily, you understand. In case there are any problems. And we'll-we'll contact you when she's found a new address."

Another belly laugh from Aldo Sawcutter.

"You'd think he'd never seen an elf!" Tauriel said under her breath when they were safely outside his workshop.

"He probably hasn't. I'd never seen one before I was in Rivendell."

"Really?" She paused to reflect. "Well, I suppose I never saw a hobbit before you." And then, "What did you think of the elves you saw?"

His answer was immediate. "Very tall, very pale, and difficult to understand."

"Is that what you think of me?"

He squinted up at her. "Tall and pale, yes, though not as tall or pale as some. But difficult to understand? Not so much. Actually, I think you're quite direct, for an elf."

She raised her eyebrows. "I'm glad you think so."

Back at Bag End, Bilbo prepared a small luncheon of last night's leftovers and shut himself in his study to write while Tauriel browsed his book collection and settled on a history of the Shire. She was immersed in it by the hearth when he reappeared at a quarter to four, a cup of tea in hand. He craned his neck to read the title she'd selected.

" _A History of the Westward Migration and Settlement of the Shire, TA 1050–TA 2747._ Oh, you must be dreadfully bored!"

"No, not at all." She put a finger in the book to mark her place. "Why should I be?"

"Well, you're an elf! I didn't think elves _needed_ history books since you were, well, _there_ when it happened."

"This may surprise you, but I'm actually quite young for an elf. I'm only twenty-seven and six hundred years."

At the mention of _six hundred_ , the hobbit spluttered into his tea and rolled his eyes. "Oh! Yes, _only_."

"Even older elves seldom know much of the wider world. Elven cities are very insular—to their detriment, I think. In King Thranduil's Halls, we were taught only Elvish subjects. I know so little of other peoples—their histories, their cultures, their politics. For instance, I didn't know the Hobbits once lived so near the Mirkwood, on the banks of the Anduin—"

"Oh, well, that was ages and ages ago—"

"Or that you fought the Witch-king in the Battle of Fornost—"

"Well, I-I-I-I didn't, personally, no—"

"Or that _your_ mother's ancestors have ruled the Shire for seventeen generations—"

"Oh, now, I would hardly say _ruled_. Thain is really an honorary title—" He cut himself off and stared at her. "You can't possibly be interested in all this?"

"But I am!" She smiled invitingly, once more without realizing how charming it made her look.

"Well then! if you're _really_ interested in the Tooks . . . "

And so Bilbo pulled up a chair across from her and promptly forgot about the teapot cooling in the kitchen as he proceeded to recount a thorough and quite colorful history of his illustrious maternal line. He was right in the middle of the part about Bandobras "Bullroarer" Took, who was tall enough to ride a real horse and invented the game of golf when he sunk a hole-in-one with a goblin's head, when there came a knock on the door.

"Good heavens, who could that be? Oh dear, oh dear, I didn't set the table for tea!"

"It's all right. You answer the door, and I'll see to everything else," Tauriel volunteered. As she hung the pot back over the kitchen fire to boil and put together a few of the finger sandwiches she knew Bilbo liked, she listened to the high-pitched voices drifting from the front doorstep.

"Cousin Bilbo! We heard you've got company and thought we'd pop round to say hullo!"

"You _do_ keep such _interesting_ company ever since that wizard showed up this time last year."

"I brought those hot pasties you like!"

"Oh, th-thank you very much, but that really wasn't necessary."

"And my lemon drizzle cakes!"

"Good heavens! And what did _you_ bring, Lobelia?"

 _"Myself,"_ came the reply in a haughty, clipped tone.

"Is your visitor at home?"

"Yes, may we see her?"

"I-I-I don't think that's a very good idea at the moment. Y-you see—"

"Where is she?"

"Here I am." And Tauriel breezed out of the dining room and came face to face with a trio of female hobbits, the first of whom had already pushed past Bilbo's upheld hands.

The two who carried platters exchanged excited glances, then bobbed their heads and curtsied. They each wore a linen short gown over a contrasting shift and petticoat, one in gold and russet, the other in rose and gray, and both had white aprons round their waists and puffed, frilled caps atop their curly hair. Like Bilbo, they stood on large, though somewhat less hairy bare feet.

"Oh, g'day to you, Mistress . . . ?

"Tauriel," she supplied.

"Mistress Tauriel! So pleased to make your acquaintance! I'm Bell Gamgee, Number Three Bagshot Row, your neighbor as it were," said the broad-faced one with dark blond hair.

"And I'm Peony Burrows, Bilbo's cousin, you know," said the thin-faced brunette. "A pleasure to meet you, I'm sure!"

"Lobelia Sackville-Baggins," sniffed the one who had pushed her way in first, barely sparing a once-over for the elf. "Also Bilbo's cousin."

"By marriage," Bilbo hastened to add.

This third lady hobbit, whose curls were nearly black, was styled more formally, her tailored spring green outfit adorned with insets and cutouts, tucks and gathers, buttons and trim. Around her shoulders was a lavishly embroidered kerchief, and on her head was the most outrageous hat Tauriel had ever seen, shaped like a pincushion and half as tall as the lady herself. In combination with the panniers at her hips, it gave her the effect of wanting to expand beyond the limits of her own body and take up more space than she necessarily had a right to.

Tauriel bowed to the three visitors and pronounced them "well met," which earned her radiant smiles from the ones called Bell and Peony. The one called Lobelia started a slow circuit of the front hall, her eyes roving purposefully.

"We saw you in the garden before but didn't come by so's not to be impolite since we were expecting Bilbo'd want to introduce you round himself—"

"But, you see, Cousin Bilbo's an old bachelor and don't know the first thing about what's polite, and after awhile, we reckoned if we were to wait any longer—"

"Good heavens, she's not even been here two days!" the old bachelor protested.

"— _we'd_ be the impolite ones for neglecting to give you a warm welcome!"

"So welcome to Hobbiton, my dear! We brought you some pasties and cakes to go with your tea, hoping it's not too late!"

"Much too late. Much too. We've just cleaned the table."

But Bell and Peony were already headed for the dining room, where they exclaimed over the lovely table that Tauriel had set unbeknownst to Bilbo. As if unsure whether to be grateful to the elf or annoyed at the new intruders, he gave a wavering smile, then, remembering something, leaned back into the hall.

"Lobelia, won't you join us?"

That good lady's head spun around, and she let go of a silver candlestick as if it were hot, setting it back on its shelf with a clunk. Then, gathering her skirts, she flounced past Bilbo and into the dining room with her nose in the air. Bilbo allowed himself a last eye roll before he followed.

When Bell and Peony didn't have their mouths full of pasty, and sometimes even when they did, they were full of questions. When did Tauriel arrive and how long was she staying? Did she cook, bake, can, brew, sew, knit, quilt, embroider, garden, or make soap or candles? How did she take her tea, and did she like the pasties?

And then when Bilbo reluctantly poured them a sweet bubbly with their cake, their questions grew bolder. Where was Tauriel from, and where on earth was that? What brought her all the way out here? They noticed she had a frightfully huge beast outside. Had she really ridden that thing? Was she making what they called the journey West? What were those trouser-like garments on her legs, and did all female elves dress like that?

Up till this point, Lobelia had remained silent, though her appraising glances spoke volumes. But now she narrowed her eyes and said, "Where is the rest of your family?"

Tauriel stiffened, though imperceptibly to anyone else. "I am here alone."

The scandalized lady's eyes and mouth rounded, and she snapped a fan out of her reticule so that she could apply it to herself most vigorously. "But what of your husband? _The father of your child?_ "

 _"Lobelia!"_ Bell and Peony hissed while Bilbo dropped his head into his hand.

"Well! Everyone knows. She ordered a cradle from Aldo Sawcutter," Lobelia huffed.

But if Tauriel was offended, she didn't show it, keeping her voice even as she said, "I lost my child's father at the Battle of Five Armies. Surely you've heard of it."

To her, it was the truth. Maybe Kíli still lived, but he hadn't been hers since then.

There was an embarrassed hush around the table, and even Lobelia looked chagrined.

"Oh, that bloody awful row Cousin Bilbo got himself into," Peony whispered, and all attention shifted to the fourteenth member of the Company.

He shook his head, which was still buried in his hand. "C-Could we _please_ not talk about that at the table?"

"Such a tragedy! Our sympathies, dear," Bell murmured, reaching out to pat the Wood Elf's willowy arm, and Peony followed suit. Another few moments passed in silence, and then, daring a grin, Bell leaned forward and said, "But Great Smials, Mistress Tauriel, I was ever so excited to hear you've got a young'un on the way! New blood, that's just what this village needs!"

Taking her cue from Bell, Peony too leaned forward and said confidentially, "If you've any questions—any at all—you just ask us, duck. We know what it's like to be a new mum. Right dreadful it is sometimes!"

"How far along are you, may I ask? Do you still get the morning sickness? How's your appetite?"

"Are you getting enough rest?"

"Oh, by the Bullroarer's club!" Bilbo muttered and downed what was left of the bubbly.

And so, while Bilbo muttered and Lobelia huffed, Bell and Peony gave Tauriel their best advice for expectant mothers. In turn, Tauriel gave them an education on expectant elves, who carried for a full year; didn't experience morning sickness (she'd never known what it felt like to be sick in her life, a fact they couldn't quite wrap their heads around); sometimes had little appetite in the early stages though hers was fine now; and _did_ tire more easily than usual, a problem that was readily fixed with a bit more sleep, but for her own part, Tauriel felt quite invigorated (she just had some difficulty resting comfortably in the guest chamber bed).

By the time the trio took their leave, both Bell and Peony had promised to come back with all manner of sleeping aids plus secondhand clothing for the babe ("Is a new elfling the size of a six-month hobbit, do you think?"), more lemon drizzle cake since he or she seemed to be developing a sweet tooth already, and a tincture to relieve nausea since they couldn't believe Tauriel had really never felt it and never would ("Maybe elves get it in the last months instead of at the beginning!"). At long last, Bilbo shooed them out, catching Lobelia by the elbow lest she "accidentally" cross the threshold with her spoon and fork still in hand, and latched the door behind them.

Then he turned on his only guest left and, after about five false, stammered starts, exploded. "No, no, no, no, no, _no_! This just _won't_ do! I can't have visitors, well-wishers, and distant relations traipsing in and out as if this were the village square! I like my peace and my p-privacy, and I'll be damned if every time I turn round I have to worry about Lobelia Sackville-Baggins making off with my mother's good silverware or Peony showing up with her pasties!"

"I thought you liked the pasties," said a stupefied Tauriel.

"Well, I don't! They're soggy on the bottoms. But I never tell my cousin that because I don't want to hurt her feelings. And _she_ thinks I don't know how to be polite!" This last uttered on the verge of an incredulous laugh.

"They tasted fine to me," the elf ventured.

"That's because you've never had a proper one!"

Just when she feared he was going to get worked up all over again, he sighed, shook his head, ran a hand over his mouth, and said, "I like you, Tauriel. Really, I do. Having you here the past few days has been . . . rather nice. But I'm a quiet fellow who lives a quiet life, and if you stay, there'll be more uninvited guests and pasties and a b- _baby_! I'm sorry, but I just _can't_."

"I understand."

Halfway down the hall, he stopped short and, without meeting her eyes, said over his shoulder, "Thank you for the weeding. And the apple walnut salad. And the help with tea today."

"I was happy to do it."

"Well, thank you again . . . Right. So. In the morning, we'll find a place for you to live."

"Of course."

Then he went into his study and shut the door behind him.

* * *

But in the morning, when Tauriel emerged from her bedchamber, sore and thankful a larger bedframe was on the way, Bilbo was writing in his study, and the remains of second breakfast were once again on the table where he'd left them for her.

She smiled to herself and picked a blueberry muffin, enjoying its sweetness as she fingered one of the many knit rags lying about the _smial_. Worn full of holes, the circular, mostly white scraps must've seen better days since Bilbo apparently tried to hide them beneath lamps, vases, books, and the like. This one, with a basket of fruit sitting on top of it, was dyed red. It would make a good signal, she thought, to send to Glaewen when the time was right.

* * *

A/N: In case you wondered about the reference to Biblical characters Mary and Goliath, I do know that Christianity was not a Middle-earth religion. Bilbo's mispronunciation, which would mean nothing to him, is just some meta humor for us, inspired by what the feast name sounded like to me when I first heard Tauriel pronounce it.

In Tolkien's timeline, Bell Gamgee, Peony Burrows, and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins aren't old enough to be married with children. I've taken creative license with their ages, imagining them as 10–15 years younger than Bilbo, who is 52 the year after the quest.

For those who might be confused about the last paragraph, which is probably a lot of people since it refers all the way back to Chap. 6, Tauriel agreed to send Glaewen a sign when the birth was near and that it would be something red.

Up next—angst and drama and death threats, oh my! We're back with Kíli in Erebor.


	12. Chapter 12 - A Battle Renewed

A/N: Lots of people to thank this week!

First, many thanks to those who reviewed, followed, and/or favorited last time. It's encouraging to know you're out there reading along!

Second, a great big thank-you to Alix-Lestrange, who created a beautiful work of fan art for this fic called _Kiliel - Say Goodbye . . ._ It really captures the mood of their parting! Please check it out at: 2050/i/2016/138/2/1/kiliel_say_goodbye_by_alix_lestrange-da2zbeg. png (And please note that I've broken the link since this site doesn't allow for outbound links.)

And, last but certainly not least, I'm very thankful to Moonraykir, my new beta, for her perceptive comments and on-point suggestions. I know this chapter is stronger for her input! She's also an excellent writer, so if you're not familiar with her work, I highly recommend it.

One more note: Last week, a reviewer asked if Kíli and Tauriel were going to be together at the end of this fic. Although I answered that reviewer privately, I also want to answer publicly for anyone else who might be wondering. Yes, Kíli and Tauriel _do_ end up together. This fic has a happy ending. But they will have to work through some things individually before they can work through things with each other. (Please see my end note to Chap. 7 for more details.)

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 12**

 **A Battle Renewed**

* * *

 _Darkness._

 _Silence._

 _Stillness._

 _Like being entombed in stone miles and miles underground._

 _No beginning and no end._

 _A place of no-thing. No-thought. No-memory. No-pain._

 _But there was sound around the edges now, an indistinct murmur like the hum of the earth. And, gradually, words began to ping the surface, crack it, and break through the darkness like drops of light._

 _"Wait!"_

 _"What the . . . ?"_

 _" . . . thought . . . move . . . finger . . . "_

 _"Dragon's bollocks!"_

 _" . . . long day, Bofur . . . tired . . . eyes . . . tricks on ya . . "_

 _" . . . sundown . . . get on with it . . . "_

 _"Aye, the bodies . . . for interment . . . "_

 _"No, wait! There!"_

 _" . . . saw it too!"_

 _" . . . and fetch Dís and Óin! **Quickly!** "_

 _And the drops of light flowed into a steady stream of whole sentences._

 _"Kíli! Kíli lad! Can you hear me?"_

 _"He's comin' back to us!"_

 _"Durin's beard, it's a miracle!"_

 _"Blast it! Stay back, ya rock-brains! . . . Get the people outta here. Clear this place out. Blood relations only, ya hear me? Clear it out!"_

 _"Kíli, open your eyes now. Kíli!"_

 _Sentences which washed away the darkness,_ and then there was only light.

Kíli sucked air into his oxygen-starved lungs and bolted upright with one word on his lips: _"Tauriel!"_ He looked around frantically, unseeingly, blinded by the painfully bright light. "Tauriel, where is she? I need to—"

 _Save her. He needed to save her. Because just moments ago, Bolg was about to—_

"Steady, lad. Steady." A wizened hand reached out, whether to comfort or restrain him, Kíli didn't know. "Can you hear me?"

Aye, and Kíli could see him, too. It was Balin, he who had seen and heard everything in his nearly two hundred and twenty years, with his face frozen in awe. And beside him Dwalin, with very un-Dwarvish tears in his eyes.

"That's right, breathe. Good. Good. Easy now."

And Bofur with his face aglow like Yule Day morn, Glóin frowning in confusion, and Dori supporting the unconscious body of Ori while he slapped his little brother's face to revive him from his faint.

 _But, where was Tauriel? Where was his love? He had to get to her before that bloody orcish fiend—_

"Easy, lad, easy. The battle is over."

"But Tauriel—"

"Is safe, laddie." This time it was Bofur who spoke, clapping a hand on Kíli's shoulder and squeezing. "That elf prince from the Mirkwood finished the bastard off afore he could touch the lass. Dwalin saw it himself. Didn't ya, Dwalin?"

"Aye. That's what happened," the warrior grunted, his voice suspiciously tight.

That was when Kíli realized his fist was clutched around an oblong, cool and smooth on one side, grooved on the other. He opened his hand and stared at the runestone in his palm. Did he imagine it, or was there a faint residual glow about it?

 _Hadn't he given the stone to Tauriel? When had she given it back? Why couldn't he remember?_

"Kíli! _Inùdoyê!_ Oh, my dearest son!"

His mother pushed through the ring of dwarves that surrounded him and flung her arms around his neck, weeping.

 _"'Amad?"_

 _What was she doing here? When had she come?_

He hadn't seen her in six months, and his own arm went round her back instinctively.

"I set out with my own guard shortly after you left Ered Luin. You didn't really think I would let my lads retake Erebor without me, did you? We arrived two days after the battle. But that is of no consequence now." It seemed forever before she pulled back and framed his face in her hands. "Let me look at you, my heart!"

He looked at her, as well, and saw that she was clothed head to toe in black funeral garb.

 _For whom was she in mourning?_

"I said stay back, all o' ye, or ya'll feel the weight o' this bald head!" Dwalin threatened the curious onlookers that pressed too close, and Kíli knew it was no idle threat. Dwalin had an especially thick skull; his head ram was forceful enough to rattle the brains of an orc, much less another dwarf.

 _But . . . who were these onlookers? Why were they here? Where **was** here?_

As the young prince's focus shifted outward, he realized the unfamiliar faces were only the inner ring. Beyond was a sea of faces flickering in some kind of candlelit amphitheater, expressions masklike, eyes and mouths frozen open in awe or elation or horror. And from this sea rose a tide of terrible murmurs, terrible because somehow he knew they were about him.

He was on a stage or platform—no wonder they were staring at him—presided over by twin statues of Mahal. He'd seen statues like this before, when he'd arrived in Erebor and Uncle had led him and Fíli down to the Memorial Hall, where the kingdom had once conducted its funeral rites . . .

 _This was . . . a funeral . . ._

"We thought . . . we thought we had lost you." His mother's voice broke, and fresh tears welled in her eyes.

He felt the weight of her words like a tangible thing. Or maybe he just felt the weight of the plate armor he was wearing and the long-sword lying across his knees.

 _That was strange. He didn't recall wearing full plate armor onto the battlefield._

Candles burned at his feet. And all around him. Most were drowning in pools of their own wax as if they'd burnt all day.

 _He was sitting on a **funeral bier**. This was **his** funeral!_

Or it was supposed to be.

"Kíli! Wait, lad!"

"Don't be gettin' up yet. We havta wait for Master Óin."

" _Inùdoy_ , please, be calm!"

In alarm, Kíli pushed aside the family members who hovered over him in search of the first two people he always turned to in times of confusion, Fíli and . . .

 _Uncle._

He would've known that regal profile anywhere, even obscured under so many pounds of furs and jewels and distorted in the dying light of a thousand candles. It was the profile he'd studied in the drill hall as a dwarfling when he positioned his small sword arm like that larger one, envied before a mirror as he tried to braid his barely-there sideburns in the same fashion, and literally looked up to in the glow of an oil lamp as he hunkered down in bed and listened to nightly stories of Erebor.

 _"Uncle!"_

The amphitheater fell silent, and despite the heat of all those flames, Kíli felt numb with cold, the tears frozen at their source and unable to flow. Maybe he really was dead, too.

Instinctively, he dropped to one knee and began to recite a Khuzdul prayer, maybe not the right one for a fallen king, but one Uncle had taught him, the Prayer for Dead Warriors.

 _Mahal,  
Father of our Seven Fathers,  
From stone we were made,  
And to stone we return.  
Hear the battle cry of the warrior  
Who fought with the strength of your Hammer.  
Open your Halls  
To him whose courage was true.  
Carve his name with your Chisel  
That he might not be forgotten.  
Give him rest, O Maker,  
Until the world is renewed.  
_

The lines he intoned barely registered. All he knew was that the flowery language translated to one simple truth: Uncle was dead.

Or _was_ it simple? It was as hard to understand as the inner workings of one of Bofur's mechanical clocks.

 _Was_ it truth? It seemed as real as the dream Uncle had once had of walking through the Gate of Erebor with one sister-son on his right and the other on his left. Now that would remain a dream, and this hollow, motionless body, gray as a phantom in the eerie light, would forever be real.

Kíli rose and took a staggering step forward. Then another.

One more step, and as voices called his name, the terrible murmur swelled inside the arena again, louder than before. Rough hands descended on his shoulders, at first restraining him, then bracing him as he looked beyond Thorin's funeral bier . . .

. . . and saw the second lifeless body.

 _Fíli._

 _O, Mahal, not Fí too!_

Not swipe-your-last-chicken-wing-off-the-plate-and-pin-you-to-the-ground-till-you-say-three-times-I-smell-like-an-orc-but-no-one-better-mess-with-you-little-brother-if-they-wanna-live Fíli.

Not Fíli with a blade in every pocket plus his boots because you never knew when someone might steal the shirt off your back and leave you nothing but your shoes to walk home in. Not Fíli who always finished his lessons and helped _'Amad_ do the dishes and didn't need to carry a runestone to make anyone believe he'd keep a promise. Not Fíli who gave up his chance to enter Erebor at Uncle's side because his place was with his sick little brother.

Kíli struggled out of the grip that held him and was across the hall before he knew it. When he flung himself over his brother's body, he heard choking noises and incoherent babble, and for one glorious second, his heart soared on the hope that Fíli, too, wasn't really dead before he realized the noises were his own.

 _Mahal,_  
 _Father of our Seven Fathers,_  
 _From stone we were made,_  
 _And to stone we return . . ._

He couldn't get any further. His chest was too tight, his throat ached too much, there were too many people pulling at him, and Thorin was sitting up.

 _Thorin was sitting up._

Not as Kíli had, panting and frantic, but deliberately, sedately, albeit a little stiffly, as if from an afternoon nap.

"Uncle?" Kíli gasped, swiping at his red-rimmed eyes like a misbehaved dwarfling afraid to show fear of punishment. He wanted to run to him, but for some reason he didn't dare.

Thorin looked himself over, then surveyed the hall with a critical air, and the terrible murmur became a terrible hush.

"Who wears my crown?" he demanded.

The terrible murmur crested and fell again, but no one replied.

 _"Who wears my crown?"_

"Uncle?" Kíli ventured a second time because it seemed Thorin might not have heard him.

At last, Thorin's proud profile swung toward his sister-son.

Kíli shrank back. Where his uncle's eyes had once been there now glowed two iridescent Arkenstones, and he could feel those beams of light lance him as surely as newly honed blades.

 _" **You** wear my crown!"_ The King under the Mountain thundered. "How could you betray me? My own flesh and blood!"

"Uncle, no! I would never betray you, I swear it! I've never worn—" Kíli protested, but even as he said it, his hands fumbled their way to his head and felt the golden circlet.

"How could you _take my crown_ and leave me to die?"

"Uncle, I didn't! I don't want it!" The prince tried to pull the crown off, but it was locked in place around his forehead like a vice.

"Kíli, son of Kali," Thorin bellowed, as good as disowning his sister-son by naming his line through his birth father, "you are accused and found guilty of usurping the crown of the King under the Mountain. For this you must die."

Kíli wrestled with the crown, but it only tightened its grip. It was going to crush his skull! "No, Uncle! No—"

Kíli sucked air into his lungs and bolted upright. He was in bed, in his bedchamber, the one intended for Thorin, surrounded by the rich teal velvet and brocade that he was forever afraid to sully with a dirty gauntlet or a spilled beer.

One hand flew to the dagger hidden in the bed curtains, the other to the short-sword under the pillows, and lastly he checked for the falchion between the mattress and the headboard. When he was sure he was not under attack, he hugged his legs to his chest and rested his head on his knees while he fought to catch his breath, then ran his hands through his tangled hair. Even though he was shivering, he was drenched in sweat.

 _Damn it all, another nightmare!_ Nine months had passed since his reawakening. Were they never going to stop?

His shaking hand groped toward the night table and landed on the circlet of gold upon its cushion, the last of the the royal trappings he removed each evening. The crown was cold to the touch.

For the twentieth or fiftieth or two hundredth time, he asked himself the same questions. Was it really Uncle who called out to him from beyond the grave? Or was it the mountain passing its judgment in his dreams? Either way, had he not been tried and found guilty? Maybe these assassination attempts were his divinely ordained punishment.

 _No. If he died, he'd never see Tauriel again._

If there was even the remotest possibility that he might see his love another time, Kíli wanted to live. That was why he'd returned the runestone to her. Now he just had to find a way to keep the promise that went with it—that someday _he_ would return to her, as well. Despite not being as superstitious as most of his kind, he wanted to believe that, when the time was right, the stone would do its part to help him, that it would protect her and exert its pull back toward the one who'd given it to her. Without his _amrâlimê_ or even a talisman of his own to hold, he had to hold onto that faith.

The young king sighed audibly in the darkness. If he could return from the dead, why was faith so damnably hard to hold onto?

A moment later, Kíli swung himself out of bed, tore off the soaked nightshirt, and threw on a tunic and trousers. He had to get out of this bedchamber. Inside its four walls and triple-bolted door, he felt like a caged animal awaiting slaughter. If death was out there, at least let him find it and die fighting. "I'm off to the armory," he told the guard posted outside the royal suite, not sure until he said it that it was where he wanted to go.

The two heavily armed dwarrow followed at a respectful distance, but their very presence irritated him. He would've preferred to dismiss them, but in the event of another attempt on his life, he'd never hear the end of it from _'Amad_ and Balin.

Since the day Tauriel had come and gone, which Kíli now privately thought of as the worst day of his life, a series of anonymous messages had appeared, carved into walls and tables and once written in blood on parchment hanging from the Council Chamber door. They all consisted of one word: _Mebelkhags-umralu._ When he'd read that last note, his blood had boiled so fast that he'd pinned the parchment to the door with his dagger before Balin could breathe a word about "forethought."

 _How dare they? How dare those bloody stinking orc-fucking cowards threaten him for loving the bravest, sincerest, most beautiful creature in Arda? How dare they make him send her away?_

Kíli couldn't say why he made for the armory now. It wasn't as though he believed his enemy would really be there, ready to duel to the death. All he knew as he suited up was that with each metal plate he fastened—breastplate, rerebraces, vambraces, gauntlets, faulds, tassets, greaves—he felt calmer, more in control. He unsheathed the graceful long-sword that felt by now like an extension of his own arm, a blade that suited his height and reach and had served him well in battle, and listened to it sing out with confidence as it arced through the air. When he passed beneath the archway formed by the crossed axes of stone warriors and entered the vaulted drill hall, he felt . . . not like a new person and not like the person he'd been before he was king but like a person who knew what he _could_ become.

* * *

The drill hall was the one place the King of Erebor didn't have to feign competence. Shadow fighting the nastiest pack of Gundabad orcs he could conjure—one with a gaping hole where its left eye used to be, another with a belt of shrunken heads, and a third with a lipless mouth permanently twisted into an evil grin—Kíli sliced the air with self-assurance, each attack swift and forceful. He could practically hear the ring of sword on scimitar, smell the stench of black orcish blood.

The dwarven warrior visualized a fourth assailant springing on him from above and executed a complex maneuver, pivoting under the downward swing of its scimitar so he could thrust his own sword into its exposed side. But when the last imaginary orc dropped to the ground, Kíli's jaw went slack. There standing a few feet beyond was . . .

 _"Uncle?"_

"Behind you," came the toneless reply.

The younger dwarf turned just in time to see the snarling, eight-foot, musclebound Bolg bearing down on him, mace brandished high overhead.

That was the mace that had staked him through the chest! Kíli felt again the ripping, blinding pain of it, and his knees locked, rooting him to the spot. Time seemed to slow, the world around him blurred, and there was only the monster barreling toward him, the details of its fractured, steel-plated skull, clouded eye, and rotten teeth absurdly vivid as everything else faded from view.

"What, waiting for your _she-elf_ to save you?" Thorin taunted from somewhere behind.

Red-hot shame suffused his youthful heir's face. "Her _name_ is _Tauriel_ ," Kíli ground out without looking back.

"No one will care what her name is if you're both dead."

"Then have a care, Uncle, because tonight we live!" Rage surged inside Kíli, sister-son of Thorin. This Gundabad scum had menaced his _amrâlimê_ , laid his filthy hands on her, and tossed her around like a doll near to breaking her neck! His loathing propelled him forward, and, with a Dwarvish battle cry, he hurled himself at the beast.

His attack was direct, and he expected the same in return. But Bolg seemed to enjoy toying with his shorter opponent, provoking him with repeated feints and disengages. In frustration, Kíli swung wide and slashed through nothing but air.

"What do you think you're doing, carving a Yule goose? Bad form. You haven't been training," Thorin observed darkly, circling the combatants.

"I've never felt stronger," Kíli said through gritted teeth as his next blow glanced off the orc's armor.

"Or sloppier. He's trying to tire you out. You can either let him or make him play his own game. Evade. Make him do the chasing."

"I will not run from him. I can kill him here and now," the young warrior resolved even as he lunged forward, stumbled, and barely deflected Bolg's attempt to bring the mace down on his head.

Thorin snorted. "The bastard almost hammered your skull into sheet metal right there. That's how _he_ killed _you_."

As much as he might want to, Kíli couldn't deny it. He needed to change tactics.

He did as Uncle had advised and switched to evasive maneuvers. Using his height and relative agility for a dwarf to his advantage, he jumped over and ducked under the descending club while aiming for low blows to Bolg's unprotected thighs to weaken him. When he finally rolled between the orc's legs and thrust his sword into a gap between the steel plates nailed into the monster's back, Kíli was gratified to hear his tormentor howl.

Dispensing with games, the fiend took a direct swing, and this time the dwarven warrior met it with a decisive clang of his sword. They began to battle in earnest, and Kíli growled with satisfaction as he countered each attack. He relished beating back and binding the mace that had slain him, driving it to the ground over and over. Unfortunately, the orcish cur countered all of Kíli's offensives, as well, drawing the two combatants into a prolonged stalemate.

"Use your head," Thorin barked from the sidelines. "What he has in strength he lacks in smarts. Use it."

 _What would the doltish brute lack the smarts to think of?_

In a flash as fast as the downward curve of Bolg's weapon, Kíli saw it—his opportunity. In the instant after he blocked the mace with his sword but before the beast could withdraw it to take another strike, the dwarf latched onto the iron shaft with his free hand and pulled it _toward_ himself. Baffled, the spawn of Azog wrenched his arm back to shake off his smaller foe, but Kíli used the momentum to swing himself onto the giant's shoulders, then swiped the edge of his blade across the thick gray stump that passed for a neck, cutting the great orc's throat.

Black blood spurted, and Bolg crashed to his knees. Kíli scrambled down from the hideous creature's back and, with a grimace, lifted his sword to finish him off.

"Behind you."

It was Thorin's voice again.

His sister-son whirled around, and this time his sword clashed with a different weapon, one he knew well—his uncle's axe. The former king stood almost nose to nose with his heir, ice-blue eyes unblinking. Neither budged an inch.

"Why don't you let me finish him?" Kíli growled.

"He's dead already, Kíli."

Startled, the younger dwarf glanced over his shoulder only to find the hall empty, his enemy disappeared. At the same moment, he felt the sharp beat on his blade that was Thorin's warning.

"Pay attention. Your fight is not with him. It's with me."

His indignation flamed out. "I don't want to fight you, Uncle."

"Then drop your weapon."

And reignited. "Drop yours!"

A chuckle rumbled through the rightful king's chest, and he began to circle his successor slowly. "You can't fight me with a weapon anyway." In the blink of an eye, he rushed Kíli, and the latter jumped the sweep of the axe in the nick of time. The drill hall echoed with the metallic clang of their blows.

"I'm fighting you now, aren't I?"

"And making a right mess of it. There! You left your sword arm open again. You want to die a second time? I don't think you're coming back from that."

"So be it. That's what you want, isn't it? For me to take my rightful place next to you and Fíli in the Halls of Waiting?"

"I want you to be worthy of my crown if you're going to wear it." He spun his axe until it blurred, then made a fast swipe that almost took Kíli's head off. "You're accustomed to the attacks of orcs and goblins. What will you do now that the attackers are your own kind, Durin's Folk?"

"I will fight back," Kíli vowed, circling his uncle. "I will train more and harder, and I will grow stronger and faster until there is no one in Erebor who can defeat me."

"And what of those outside Erebor? Those whose attack you can't see?"

Suddenly, the new ruler rushed the last one, who was caught off guard and stumbled backward. Their weapons exchanged a series of quick, heavy blows echoed by the grunts of those who wielded them.

"I will bolster our defenses, and I will fortify the city, and I will make this kingdom safe _again_!" The last words, which were nearly hissed, found King Kíli's sword locked with his challenger's axe, both dwarrow breathing heavily from exertion. Then, in the blink of an eye, the axe blade hooked the sword and sent it clattering to the ground. Kíli traced its path with his eyes, mouth slightly agape.

Slowly, he turned back to Thorin. He swallowed and held his hands up in a gesture of defeat, though his gaze was unyielding. "If you're going to kill me, get it over with. I know it's what I deserve." His blood roared in his ears like molten ore through a furnace, his heart the trip hammer. He would not look away; he would not shame himself.

 _Tauriel . . ._

But his uncle only shook his head ruefully and lowered the axe. "O my sister-son, have you not heard a word I've said? Weapons are of no use here."

Kíli's glower faltered, then failed altogether. Stunned, he opened his mouth to speak, but another voice answered first.

"Sire! I didna expect to see ye here at half past one in the mornin'."

"Behind you," Thorin said with the ghost of a smile and vanished.

Dazed, Kíli turned and saw Dwalin standing about twenty paces away, thick arms folded over his barrel chest. "Shadow fencing?" When Kíli nodded, the older dwarf said, "Looks like yer opponent got the best o' ya." He nodded at the long-sword lying on the ground. Kíli stared at the sword as if seeing it for the first time, ducked his head to hide his flush as he retrieved it, then approached the master-at-arms.

Dwalin was clad in only a worn tunic and trousers instead of the armor he usually sported for training soldiers. Despite the offer of a suite befitting his position, he'd chosen rooms adjacent to the armory, and noise from the drill hall, Kíli realized, would've traveled easily. "I'm sorry, Master Dwalin. I didn't mean to wake you." Despite his superior station, the king still couldn't bring himself to address his former instructor by his first name only.

"No harm done. I wasn't abed anyhow. Dun need as much sleep when ya git to be my age."

"And I need it but can't get it," Kíli admitted with a wry shake of his head. In truth, though, he wasn't tired; his blood zinged through his veins. He hadn't felt more alive since he'd died.

"Did ye try walkin' it off?"

"I've tried everything. But I think what I need is this." He swept his arm out to indicate the space around them. He needed to be the warrior who'd retaken Erebor again but stronger and faster and _better_. He needed to be undefeatable. "I want you to train me again, Master Dwalin," he said earnestly. "I want you to teach me everything you know and make me a better fighter."

"Yer a damn good one already, m'lord."

Kíli gave a crooked smile. "Don't blow smoke up my arse, sir. I'm already on my second lifetime." Then he sobered. "I died once in battle already, and I don't intend for it to happen again. I want to be the best I can be. And then better than that."

Dwalin squinted an eye, studying him. "A'right. When do ye wanna start?"

This time the youth's grin was full and genuine. "As soon as we can."

"How 'bout right now?"

"If you don't mind that it's the middle of the night."

"What else am I gonna do? Take another turn past the poleaxes?"

Kíli grinned even wider if that were possible.

"Just a minute while I git suited up."

Dwalin returned wearing light chain mail, sword in hand, and soon the two dwarven warriors danced around each other, the master-at-arms barking corrections where he saw fit. His eyebrows shot up toward his tattooed forehead when his junior opponent landed a powerful blow that threw him off balance. "Ye must be practicin' in the middle of the night on the regular, then?" he said in amazement.

"Only in my dreams," Kíli said darkly.

"Well, yer no worse for wear after that bout with death, I'll vow. Ya got more strength in yer sword arm than most lads got in two!"

Kíli nodded to acknowledge the compliment but wasted no time advancing on his opponent once more. "Again," he said.

* * *

Gandalf urged his horse into a faster gallop toward the tower that pierced the horizon like a black thorn. An oddly incongruous abode for the White Wizard, he sometimes thought.

He'd been avoiding the journey here for quite some time. Saruman may have been his elder and better and more knowledgeable about the subject on which Gandalf wished to inquire, but he was, nevertheless, the Grey Wizard's last resort.

There was something different about Saruman this millennium, especially in the past few centuries, something that set Gandalf on edge. Although his friend and mentor was head of the White Council, sometimes it seemed as if he was working at cross-purposes with it. The wizard with a beard like a drift of pure, freshly fallen snow would insist he was just taking reasonable precautions, playing Morgoth's advocate. But by the sea and stars, as the elves would say, he'd dragged his feet so long before moving on Dol Guldur that the council had almost lost its window of opportunity to expel Sauron before he established an impenetrable stronghold!

Saruman had always been a bit . . . contrary, to Gandalf's frustration. But this increasing reluctance to act was more than frustrating; it was perplexing and worrisome.

Perhaps that was why, when young Kíli had mysteriously returned to life, Gandalf had not disclosed the event to the head of his order. Instead, he'd immersed himself in the archives of Minas Tirith and sought counsel from others he trusted, namely Lady Galadriel, Lord Celeborn, Lord Elrond, Círdan the Shipwright . . .

Theories were bandied about, but it was going on a year now since the so-called miracle in Erebor had taken place, and still no one had a satisfactory answer as to who or what had caused it, much less how or why. For the High Elves, it was routine practice to meditate on a conundrum for a decade or two, but the Dwarves of Erebor didn't have the luxury of endless time for contemplation. With their king in isolation, the resurgence of their kingdom was stalled; they needed an answer to what had happened and soon. And in the mind of King Kíli and a substantial number of the Longbeards, that answer was the Silvan Elf Tauriel.

Before meeting the warrior maiden, Gandalf had presumed it would be easy to absolve her of any responsibility in the matter. But when he'd realized she was a Nandorin Elf with remarkably Noldorin red hair and healing abilities, that had given him pause. Whatever her heritage, he still didn't believe someone so young and relatively untrained could have performed such a wonder, but he'd hoped that if he brought her to a very senior member of her own kind, such as Elrond or Galadriel, one of them might make a definitive judgment.

Confound it, as the hobbits would say, now Tauriel was in the Shire for the indeterminate future! And he had virtually no chance of persuading any of the High Elves, ensconced in their glamorous cities, to leave the comforts of home and take to the long and weary road to Hobbiton for an interview with a commoner who may or may not—but probably did not—have anything to do with the resurrection of the King under the Mountain.

Which left Gandalf with only one other individual to consult, one last hope of making sense of this non-sense. An authority, as a matter of fact, on Elvish magic and Rings of Power and the history of Middle-earth, in which there might have been some precedent, somewhere, for what had happened to Kíli.

Yes, there could be no doubt Saruman was highly educated and intelligent and perceptive and wise.

And dashing headlong toward the gate of Isengard, Gandalf prayed he was trustworthy.

* * *

A/N: Up next—squabbling dwarves and . . . Saruman! :O

Just as an FYI here, I have a busy week coming up and got a little behind on my writing, so I'm not 100% sure I'll be able to update next Friday night like I have been so far. But I'm 90% sure! And if I don't update on Friday, it will be soon after that. I just wanted to let you guys know on the off chance that you might look for an update next Friday and not see one there. (If you want to know the minute an update is ready, you can always follow this fic to get a notification.)


	13. Chapter 13 - A Strong Defense

A/N: Happy Memorial Day weekend to those of you in the US! I hope you're enjoying your BBQs and your pool parties, and when you want to sneak off for a quiet moment by yourself, here's a new update to read. ;)

I want to thank those of you who took the time to review last week and those of you who followed and/or favorited since the last update. Your support always means a lot! :)

Guest 5/21: No need to apologize—it's never too late to leave a review! I welcome them at any time. :) Fortunately, you don't have too long to wait to find out the answer to your question because it's coming right up in the next chapter (Chap. 14). ;) Thank you for reading and commenting!

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 13**

 **A Strong Defense**

* * *

"It's been nearly a year since Erebor was reclaimed." Frithr, Minister of Foreign Affairs, son of Thrór's minister of the same, addressed the Royal Council in the educated accent of the upper class, though he was careful to include everyone at the table, regardless of background, in the sweep of his gaze. "The world is questioning why we choose a policy of isolation, particularly after forging alliances, however tentative, during the Reclamation." The graying dwarf with his beard styled into three braided loops riffled through the stack of parchment before him. "It isn't just the other dwarven kingdoms anymore. King Bard of Dale, Lord Elrond of Rivendell, King Fengel of Rohan, Steward Turgon of Gondor, King, er, Thranduil of the Woodland . . . "

He stole an apologetic glance at King Kíli of Erebor, who compressed his lips and averted his eyes at that last name but said nothing.

"All wish to establish diplomatic relations and invite the King under the Mountain to their halls or request an appointed time to present themselves in Erebor at Your Majesty's convenience."

"Men and elves! What a sorry lot!" Dáin burst out. "Men are greedy graspers, all. And that Fengel's one o' the worst of 'em! Let them in the gates of Erebor, and they'll go back out with half the treasury. And elves are worse! Ye can't read 'em with their faces smooth and cold as a frozen tarn and all their sneaky thoughts a-swimmin' beneath the surface, and don't they know it, too! Ye'll think yer makin' an ally for life, but yer life is nothin' ta folk that live forever. Nay, the Firstborn look out for their own, and they'll throw a good dwarf to the Wargs at a moment's notice if they think it'll be ta their advantage."

Kíli winced. He didn't like to hear Dáin speak so about his _amrâlimê's_ people even if it were sometimes true of rulers like Thranduil. And while he couldn't speak for men at large, he'd never known Bard to be greedy or grasping.

"Now, m'lord," Balin cautioned, "let's not allow our feelings about past disagreements to cloud our rational judgment in the here and now. What say you, my lady?"

Dís nodded. "I am of the same mind as Lord Dáin. Besides which, they mustn't know King Kíli lives."

There were murmurs of agreement around the table.

"That's right. We dun need their military aid!" The ginger-bearded Gunnir, Chief of Defense, pounded his fist on the table to punctuate his exclamation. "We defeated Gundabad with precious little help from any o' them. It was our own King Thorin, may he rest with the Fathers, who slew the Defiler!"

Kíli felt his ears redden, too ashamed to point out that it was an elven prince who slew the Defiler's second-in-command after he himself had perished trying.

"Soon as we finish restockin' the armory and train up enough warriors to replace those lost in the Battle of Five, we'll have the mightiest military on earth. The elves can take their invitations and shove 'em up their immortal arses!"

There was a round of table-pounding in approval, which drowned out both Balin's gentle rebuke and Kíli's sigh. Gunnir was one of Dáin's generals and reminded Kíli of a younger version of Dáin himself—opinionated, volatile, and crass even for a dwarf. Kíli would've preferred to make Dwalin his chief of defense, but the seasoned warrior had turned down the offer for the more active role of master-at-arms, insisting he could do more for the army of Erebor "with an axe in me hands than a quill pen." However, Kíli suspected he had also demurred to avoid a conflict with Dáin, who'd enthusiastically backed Gunnir for the position.

In fact, as he surveyed the table now, Kíli noted that the majority of the twelve Royal Council members had been handpicked by Dáin and Dís, whereas he himself would rather have tipped the balance toward the Company of Fourteen. As it was, the only representatives from the Company were Balin, Chief Advisor; Glóin, Chief of Finance; and Bombur, Chief Engineer. Unless he counted Ori, but the youngest of the Company merely shared secretarial duties with Dáin's son Thorin and had no actual input. In Kíli's view, anyone who'd survived the rigors of the quest for Erebor was automatically qualified to give input. But Dáin and his mother knew more about the business of government than he did, so he tried to respect the counsel of the advisors they'd selected.

Sometimes the former members of the Company didn't bother trying. Right now, for instance, Chief of Finance Glóin was giving Gunnir the evil eye. "What are we now, a bunch o' blind dunderheads? The elves are no friends o' mine, neither, not in this age nor the next, but there's more ta consider than just military alliances. Along with men, they're our biggest market for gems and ore. 'Sides, we rely on the other Free Peoples fer our staple foods—our grains and potaters. As of now, we buy at the going rate, but we could no doubt pay up to thirty percent less if we negotiate a long-term contract."

More murmuring, this time thoughtful in tone, followed by nods.

"Mayhap, since His Majesty must remain unknown to the world, we could send a representative to negotiate in his stead?" ventured Chief Legal Advisor Rathi. "I myself could perform this function."

Balin acknowledged this with a nod. "That would seem a reasonable solution, but I fear we might give offense were we to send a legal advisor to treat with a king when another king was requested. Royals do not often take kindly to being snubbed. Any thoughts on how else we might open negotiations, Master Frithr?"

Frithr peered at Balin over steepled fingers. "I believe these invitations name His Majesty specifically because he remains in seclusion. Surely the Free Peoples of Middle-earth wonder at the cause of our secrecy. As we are all aware, our failure to announce King Kíli's coronation was highly irregular. If we attempt to negotiate while yet concealing the king's identity, it will in all likelihood be interpreted as a hostile maneuver and will raise more questions than it answers. Unfortunately, if we want to head off their suspicions, we may have to reveal, under oath of allegiance—"

"No. It's out of the question," Dís interrupted. "No one else must know of the miracle. It's caused enough trouble among our own people. I would not put our king's life in further jeopardy for the sake of a thirty percent discount on flour!"

Kíli felt her hand on his forearm beneath the table and gave it a reassuring pat.

"Aye, if we can't trust those inside Erebor, how can we trust those outside it, much less the sorry _lastul_ likes of elves?" Dáin affirmed. "We're still restoring what was damaged in the Desolation and the Battle of Five. We canna yet withstand another attack. We must remember what the wizard said and tell no one while the kingdom is weakened."

"And the way ta strengthen the kingdom is ta build us a strong financial base! That means commerce!" Glóin insisted.

"A financial base means nothin' if we haven't one stone left on a stone! Is that what ye _dunderheads_ wanna see?" Gunnir fired back, echoing Glóin's earlier insult. "'Cause ye will if we're attacked agin afore our forces are battle-ready! We'll be reduced to rubble! What we need is to expand our army and our stockpile o' weapons."

"And where do ye suppose the money for that is goin' ta come from?"

"Are ye daft? Yer bloody dragon's hoard, that's where!"

Glóin tugged on his beard in that way Kíli knew from experience meant he itched to tug someone else's beard out by the roots. His glare was so sharp it was almost painful to look at. "Yer mouth swings open 'n' shut like a rusty hinge, General. It makes a damn irritatin' noise, but no sense comes outta it! The treasury's been depleted by a third just ta pay off our debts ta Dale and the Woodland. If we spend gold faster'n we can mine it, it'll be gone before ye know. We've gotta stick to the budget!"

"Then we better allot a greater portion o' that budget to defense." Dáin squinted an eye at the chief of finance. "Unless Master Glóin here is worried it might eat into _his_ share o' the treasure. Touch o' the gold sickness mebbe?"

There was a clamor, and quill pens went flying, though thankfully no inkwells.

"My lords . . . my lords, please . . . " Balin reached out a hand, which ended up cradling his aching head. It was by no means unusual for debates to deteriorate into this kind of ruckus despite his attempts, then and now, to play the mediator.

Kíli was tiring of the council members talking past him as if he wasn't there anyway. Sometimes he thought he could sleep through these meetings and no one would notice, but despite the midnight practice sessions with Dwalin, he was too wide awake every day to do that.

Even Ori and Thorin were joining the fray now, aiming their folded parchments like arrows.

"Enough."

When the king's voice rang out, all heads swung around, and silence descended. How odd it still seemed to him that he could command that kind of attention! Which he seldom did, but maybe it was time to start changing that. It wasn't in his nature to order others about, but maybe dwarves like Dáin did it because it was the only way to get anything done.

"I've listened to your counsel," King Kíli said. "I've heard your arguments, and many good points have been made. Master Glóin, show me our budget, please." He studied the chart that was passed to him, then said, "I want you to double the defense budget."

"But, sire," Glóin protested, "if we do that, we must subtract the money from some other department."

The young ruler met his gaze steadily. "Then you have my permission to reduce every other department by ten percent."

Since that night when shadow fencing had become a bit too real in his mind, Kíli had been preparing to fulfill the vows he'd made to "Thorin"—to himself, really—to bolster Erebor's armed defenses, fortify the city, and make the kingdom safe again. That was why he now had to side with Dáin, Gunnir, and his mother, whose primary concern was security, no matter how uneasy he felt about their open hostility toward elves and men. To be fair, he tried to remember that the only difference between them and himself was the nature of the threat they feared most. To Dáin, Gunnir, and Dís, that threat wore a stranger's face. To Kíli, it had no face at all. It was, as Gandalf had described it to them, a dark force beyond imagining.

Instinctively, he knew he would have to make Erebor invincible to withstand it. Only after the kingdom was invincible—only after _Kíli_ was invincible—could he reveal himself to the world.

 _And only then could he keep his promise to Tauriel._

"Yer Majesty?"

"Yes, Master Bombur?" Kíli was surprised to see the chief engineer raise a tentative hand at the other end of the table. He seldom spoke at these meetings.

"I'm afeared we canna afford a budget cut in Engineering if we wanna git the Northwest Mines up and runnin' agin."

"Nor can we in Internal Affairs if we wanna finish the reconstruction o' lower-level residences afore winter comes."

"Same goes fer the Ministry o' Transport. We found more bridges and walkways in need o' repair than was estimated."

The representatives from these departments had more daily contact with the common folk than the other advisors did, and they often seemed ill at ease during these meetings, reluctant to voice their opinions among their more educated peers. So their comments, when they _did_ muster any, held more weight with Kíli than they otherwise might have. And yet . . . these dwarrow, well intentioned though they were, didn't routinely deal with matters of defense. How could they understand what it took to secure a mountain city like Erebor? "Unfortunately, those repairs will have to wait," Kíli said apologetically, steeling himself against Bombur's crestfallen face.

Again he reminded himself that he had to protect Erebor above all. For the House of Durin, for the Longbeards, and, Mahal willing, for the one who still held his heart in her hand as surely as she held his runestone.

 _The runestone that he could only pray would guide her back to him when the city was safe._

When he spoke next, the King of Erebor's voice was firm. "Our first priority is to finish reconstructing our defenses and fortify the city, starting with Ravenhill and the northern ramparts that face Gundabad. Master Dwalin has made a list of weapons in the armory that need to be replenished, and many of the young dwarrow from Ered Luin still need full coats of armor."

"But, sire," Balin said gently, "think of the laborers. Many of them are living now two families to a dwelling, or the dwellings they live in have no steam heat, no running water."

Kíli swallowed. He knew what it was like to live in cramped quarters with no amenities, and he wouldn't wish it on anyone. But at least they lived.

"Remember, what's good for the people is good for the king."

"I know, Master Balin. It's good for them to be safe, too."

"Well said, my liege, well said," Dáin nodded, bestowing an avuncular smile on his youthful relation while Dís looked on proudly.

Some inner part of Kíli recoiled at their approval. Perhaps he was doing as they wished but not for their reasons, and the compromises he had to make to do it were nothing to smile about. He pushed back his seat and rose from the table. "This council is adjourned." He moved to leave, but young Thorin stepped between him and the doorway.

Actually, Kíli didn't know why he thought of Dáin's son as "young." They were of an age, really. Maybe it was because the lad _looked_ young with that beard of flame the same color as his father's yet soft and silky as a dam's. Or maybe it was just because Kíli's far greater responsibility made him feel older. In either case, it unsettled him whenever he came face to face with his uncle's namesake, to whom, if circumstances had been different, he should've been a peer but was now a superior.

Thorin swept a graceful bow, humbly avoiding the king's eyes in a way that made Kíli feel even more like an imposter in his crown and royal cloak. "Shall Ori and I draw up the new budget for you to authorize, sire?"

"Very good, thank you."

"And what of these invitations?"

Kíli wheeled around to see Frithr helplessly waving a sheet of parchment from his pile on the table.

"Send our regrets."

* * *

The golden days of late summer seemed muted in the shadow of the tower of Orthanc.

Its lord preferred it so. For at least a century now, he'd seldom left the confines of its upper stories, in which the wane blue light mimicked dusk at any hour. But the arrival of his "old friend" warranted an hour or two in the sun, walking the grounds of Isengard while he teased out what new information he could from his peripatetic peer. On this particular afternoon, the information rankled him greatly.

The King under the Mountain resurrected? That was troubling news in itself.

More troubling was that no one had told him of it until now.

"Why did you not bring the elf maid to me? I could have told you immediately if she bore a Ring of Power." Saruman the White fixed Gandalf the Grey with his unblinking stare, his carefully neutral expression betraying nothing of the insult he felt at having been bypassed in this matter when he was chief among the Istari and Middle-earth's foremost authority on the Rings.

At least Gandalf had the decency to look contrite and even a little cowed as he walked alongside his elder. He bowed his head briefly in apology. "I hoped to call a meeting of the White Council when we reached Rivendell, but Lord Elrond had already removed to Lothlórien."

Saruman strove to mask the impatience that threatened to make itself known in his voice. "You should have followed with the elf so that we could convene there. Or simply brought her to Isengard."

"That would've required us to depart from our route by at least five hundred miles in the opposite direction."

"What of it?"

Gandalf raised one bushy brow in reproval. "The Elvenking's former captain was traveling west. What would you have had me do? Bind her, gag her, and drag her back over the mountains as my prisoner?"

The Grey Wizard's tone was mocking, and the White did not care for it. Did Gandalf think the head of his order had landed in the Grey Havens yesterday? He strutted about proclaiming to everyone how eager he was for answers to this miraculous enigma yet didn't introduce the elf to someone who could instantly detect whether she'd found a Ring and used it on the dwarf. That kind of inconsistency could mean only one thing—Gandalf was trying to double-cross them all.

Had the elf simply found _a_ Ring, Saruman wondered, or was it _the_ Ring?

"Mistress Tauriel was eager to be on her way, and since she has become someone of significance to us, I believed it was important to see her quickly and safely to her destination."

"Which was?"

"I cannot say. I introduced her to an old friend in the Shire, but whether she remained there or continued on and where she is now is anybody's guess."

 _The Shire._

What a convenient place to squirrel away the One Ring if ever there was one! Was that why Gandalf wasted so much time hobnobbing with the halflings there? Maybe it wasn't wasted time at all. Maybe he was building loyalties to help him protect the Ring until he could establish a seat there from which to rule. Was the Ring even still in the elf's possession, or had Gandalf confiscated it for himself? The fool probably thought himself clever, but Saruman was older and wiser and could see through his poorly constructed do-gooder facade.

No doubt Narya, the Ring Gandalf wore now, naively believing his magic concealed it from his superior, had stoked the Grey's lust for One more powerful. Oh, what would Círdan the Shipwright say if he knew his favorite had been corrupted by the gift he'd so trustingly bestowed upon him? Saruman had to suppress a chuckle just thinking about it.

" . . . and, for my own part, could not delay as I was expected in Bree-land," Gandalf was saying. "But after spending three fortnights in her company, I cannot believe she possesses a Ring. She showed none of the usual signs of it despite the rather unusual behavior I mentioned already—the pensiveness and hearty appetite and so on."

Saruman caught himself just before he snorted outright. Oh, yes, Gandalf thought he was _so_ clever to lead the sagest Istar in Arda down the garden path—the halflings _were_ said to be fond of gardening—away from the Shire and the she-elf. "Who was expecting you?"

Gandalf drew back for a moment at the change of subject, a fleeting wariness on his face, but then it was gone, and he said, "Tom Bombadil."

This time Saruman couldn't hide his scorn. "What would you want with that boozy old half-wit? He does nothing but laze around on the banks of the Withywindle all day." Too late he saw that he had given offense.

"I would remind you, friend, that that boozy old half-wit, as you call him, has walked this earth longer than either you or I and has seen a great many things in his time. And, in this case, I wanted to ask him if he'd ever seen anything like the dwarf king's return from the dead."

"And had he?"

"Yes, but nothing I'd not read about already," Gandalf admitted with some chagrin.

"The choice of Lúthien?" Saruman guessed, referring to the First Age elven princess who'd died of grief beside the body of Beren, the mortal man she loved, and had pleaded with Mandos in the Halls of Waiting until Eru himself was moved to grant the pair another chance at a full and fruitful but mortal life together.

Gandalf nodded. "But this is a very different situation. Mistress Tauriel did not die and was not offered a choice to give up her immortality for King Kíli."

"Perhaps she gave it up nonetheless."

Gandalf looked at him sharply. "What do you mean?"

"Come now. You know as well as I that only a very ancient spirit would have the power to infuse another with life without draining its own. Perhaps this oddly red-haired Wood Elf unwittingly drained herself of her immortality in her attempt to save the dwarf." Saruman didn't believe that for a minute, but he too knew some pretty garden paths down which to lead the unsuspecting.

"Well, and for that very reason I inquired about her health numerous times on our travels, but she was as vigorous as any of her kind. I could see no weakness in her."

"Except for her ill humor. And her gluttony." Both signs of a Ring bearer, actually.

"Well, now, I wouldn't call it an _ill_ humor. Pensive, wistful perhaps. Nor would I call it gluttony so much as an appreciation for certain savories, in which I've also been known to indulge, mind you."

Saruman stared just long enough to make the lesser wizard wince a bit, then turned back toward the tower. He grew weary of this discussion. They both knew the elf carried a Ring and that maybe it was the One Ring. But did they both know the other knew? That was the question. Better to let his "friend" believe he didn't know. "Have you considered that the elf had nothing whatsoever to do with it? That the Valar in their infinite wisdom sent the dwarf back for some purpose that it is not our privilege to know? He is the first to reign in Erebor in almost two hundred years and is the last of his line. Perhaps he is more useful restoring the kingdom than turning back to stone in Aulë's Halls."

"Of course I've considered that. This would not be the first time that one of the line of Durin has returned."

Saruman paused in mid-step. "Are you suggesting that he _is_ Durin returned?"

"I am asking what you think on the matter."

"The spirit of Durin has only ever incarnated in an infant, who grows to closely resemble his namesake in appearance and manner." When he saw that Gandalf did not look convinced, he turned to face him squarely. "You think otherwise?"

The Grey gave a noncommittal bob of his head, but his soft blue eyes were unwavering. "Kíli was not intended to be king. The crown was to belong to Thorin Oakenshield and pass to his sister-son Fíli. I became acquainted with Kíli on the quest to retake the mountain, and while he was a brave and loyal warrior, I can tell you that he was not prepared in any way to govern a kingdom the size of Erebor. However, since his reawakening he is changed—more serious, more focused. He is not yet a good leader, but, mark my words, he will one day be a great one."

Saruman narrowed his eyes. "What are you saying?"

"Just that in the extraordinary circumstances in which his line was almost lost, it may be that extraordinary measures were taken to preserve it. In which case, he will most certainly play a vital role in the battle that is to come."

The White Wizard felt a prickle of apprehension, though he remained outwardly impassive. The Durins were mighty leaders capable of uniting the entire dwarven world into a force to be reckoned with. It had taken a Balrog to bring the last one down, and it was said that the seventh incarnation would preside over the most glorious kingdom yet. It was a most disturbing notion that the current King under the Mountain might be that incarnation.

And even more disturbing was that Gandalf had conceived of it before Saruman himself had.

This dwarf would have to be . . . _removed_. But not right away. It might raise suspicions if Saruman acted too quickly after hearing the news from Gandalf. He would have to bide his time. Meanwhile, he would send his agent to the Shire to sniff out the whereabouts of this redheaded she-elf who bore a Ring. _And_ he would make sure Gandalf, that continuous meddler, was sufficiently distracted.

"I don't know why you speak to _me_ of this. You've consulted half of Arda already, it seems." For a split second, it looked as if Gandalf would take umbrage at his needling, but Saruman instantly slipped into his most persuasive voice, to which even other beings of his order were susceptible. "It's Glorfindel who would be the best choice to advise you on all the reasons one might return from the dead, seeing as he's done it himself."

"Yes, but no one knows where he is at present."

"I hear he's somewhere in Eriador. In Lindon, I believe."

"But I just came from the West," Gandalf protested.

"Then you will have to go back," the other wizard said dryly. "Actually, I recall hearing Glorfindel was seen with Círdan in the Grey Havens. I wonder if he's planning to sail for Valinor." The prospect of losing one of the wisest of High Elves and one of his own staunchest supporters threw Gandalf into the intended tizzy, and the other wizard snickered inwardly. "You'd better be off," he said, walking onward with a dismissive wave.

"Yes, indeed I must," the Grey agreed, then added, "I'm grateful to have had this conversation, my friend. I feared you might not be here when I came."

"Oh? Where else would I be?"

"I thought you might still be in pursuit of Sauron." Suddenly, Gandalf's blue gaze was uncomfortably piercing.

"I was. For six months after we weakened him at Dol Guldur, I tracked him into the East to strike him down for good."

But, when he'd found the Necromancer, Saruman had done what no one else on the White Council had had the courage to do. Knowing that if you want to win a war you must understand the enemy, he had offered Sauron an opportunity to state his case. And when Sauron had done so, Saruman had realized that their goals were not dissimilar—above all, they both desired the One Ring. The difference was that, in the dark lord's hands, its power would be an unmitigated disaster. However, by feigning allegiance to the servant of Morgoth, the White Wizard had realized he could use the forces of darkness to obtain the Ring for himself.

The shadow of a smile passed over Saruman's face. "Sauron is no longer a threat."

* * *

"Again," Kíli grated even though he'd just managed to disarm Dwalin.

The master-at-arms belted out a sound of incredulity and bent to retrieve his weapon. "Ye've won every bout tonight. How many more times can ye knock a sword outta me hand afore ye're satisfied?"

"As many as you'll let me," Kíli returned with a sly grin, bouncing on the balls of his feet in readiness.

"I'm not lettin' ya. There's no stoppin' ya anymore." Dwalin shook his head and glanced around the drill hall, still breathing heavily. "It's hot as dragon's breath in here! Doncha wanna sit down and have a breather?"

"Not unless you need one."

"Nah, I'm a'right." The older dwarf wiped beads of perspiration from his brow and squinted an eye at his student. "Ya don't even break a sweat, do ye?"

Kíli shrugged. He didn't even feel particularly hot.

A few minutes later, the smiles had vanished, and the two warriors were back to sparring. But not long thereafter, the bout ended with Kíli's blade pointed at his instructor's throat. "Good bout," he said. "Again."

"Lad . . . "

When Dwalin slipped into informal address, Kíli knew something was amiss. Slowly, he lowered the sword. "Master Dwalin? Are you tired?"

"Nay, nay, I'll be fine." He waved a dismissive hand.

"Good. Because I don't want to stop. I want you to teach me everything you know."

"I have, lad." The master-at-arms shook his head in wonder. "Hurts me to say, but I think ye're better than I was at yer age."

Kíli's eyes widened, but he only said one word as he raised his sword. "Again."

* * *

lastul—crafty, cunning

A/N: Up next—Tauriel gets a special visitor! Can you guess who? ;)

Just so everyone is aware, now that I have a beta I'll most likely be changing my update schedule to accommodate the beta reading process. Though it may take slightly longer to update, I think it's well worth it to deliver a better chapter to you guys each time. I'm still aiming for weekly updates, but they probably won't be on Friday nights anymore. If you want to know as soon as an update is posted, you can always follow this fic. Thanks! :)


	14. Chapter 14 - A Sign Received

A/N: Welcome aboard to the new readers who added this fic to their follows and/or favorites since last week's update! I'm so glad to have you along for the ride. :) And continued thanks to those of you who review! I always appreciate your interest and your encouragement. :D

Guest 5/29: Good guess! Scroll on down to find out if you were right . . . ;)

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 14**

 **A Sign Received  
**

* * *

"Confound it! Where's the doily I used to keep under this basket? The red one?" Bilbo muttered to himself.

Although Tauriel was in her bedchamber rearranging the new cradle, rocking chair, and changing table for the sixth or seventh time, her elven ears perked up, and even carrying the additional weight of her full, taut belly, she entered the dining room so quietly that the hobbit startled when she asked, "What is a doily?"

"Oh, you know. These!" He waved a few of the circular, white knit scraps worn full of holes.

Her green eyes widened, and for the first time since she'd been in Bilbo's home, Tauriel bit her lip like an elfling. "Those rags?"

" _Rags?_ These— _No._ These are my mother's _doilies_ , knit by my Grandmother Took."

"She made them full of holes?"

"Yes! I mean, no, they're _doilies_. They're _supposed_ to look that way. They're family heirlooms!"

"Oh." The Silvan Elf may not have known what a doily was, but she certainly understood the significance of an heirloom.

"And I can't find the red one that was on the serving table!" He went back to poking around in search of it.

"Oh, dear. Bilbo, I'm afraid I—"

But there was a knock at the door.

Tauriel stayed in the dining room while Bilbo answered and soon recognized the wheeze and malted barley smell of their next-door neighbor, Daddy Twofoot, who appeared on their doorstep whenever he got wind of any "funny business."

According to Bilbo, Daddy Twofoot had always thought his younger neighbor a rather strange chap for living alone even though Twofoot himself was neither married nor a daddy. But the balding, bespectacled hobbit's suspicions had multiplied tenfold the night a parade of dwarves and "other disreputables" had marched by his window on the way to Bag End, followed by Bilbo's unexplained disappearance the next morning. In fact, Bilbo thought it was Twofoot who'd spread the word about his elven visitor to Bell, Peony, and Lobelia that first day when they'd shown up to tea uninvited, but the elf herself was secretly happy he'd done so, at least for Bell and Peony's sake. It was good to have friends in her new home!

Still, Tauriel didn't much care for their neighbor's nosiness since then. When she was gardening, she often caught him peeping out his kitchen window at her, and once she came upon him at _Bilbo's_ kitchen window, his big, hairy ear pressed to the opening the better to eavesdrop. He'd thought twice about doing that again after she'd closed the casement so fast it nearly took his ear right off, but she couldn't keep the windows closed all the time.

For example, today was a mild, cloudless afternoon in Narbeleth—October, by the Shire calendar—and it would've been a tragedy not to let the fresh air in. Undoubtedly, Old Twofoot had overheard the commotion about the red doily and was now here to see if someone was being robbed, beaten, or murdered.

"G'day, Baggins! Some funny business in town today. They say there's an _elf_ goin' round askin' after the one what's livin' with you—"

Tauriel flew to the nearest window overlooking the village. This wasn't the first time she'd been grateful for Bag End's advantageous location at the top of Hobbiton Hill, from which she had an unobstructed view of anyone who approached the _smial_.

"Just thought you'd like to know lest another one of them _disreputables_ tries to hole up with you and that _she-el_ —er, ah, Mistress Tauriel! G'day to you!"

But, taking no notice of either Twofoot's attempted slur or his clumsy recovery, the so-called she-elf slipped through the door past Bilbo and his visitor and fairly sprinted down the lane, prompting Bell Gamgee, who was watching from her parlor with Peony and another of their friends, to declare that it was only by elven magic that Tauriel didn't waddle like a fat goblin's chin, after which her older son asked if she'd ever seen a fat goblin or any goblin at all, and she had to admit she hadn't.

"Glaewen! _Guren linna a chened le, mellon_ _nín!_ "

" _Muin nín_ Tauriel! Oh, thank the stars you're still with child! I was afraid I wouldn't be in time."

The raven-haired elleth, who was halfway up the narrow path with her horse in tow, pushed back the hood of her traveling cloak and held out her arms to her friend. They embraced awkwardly due to the expectant mother's girth, then drew back and laughed at themselves.

" _Elo!_ I can't remember the last time I saw you out of your King's Guard uniform!" Glaewen exclaimed, holding Tauriel at arm's length.

"I am in the guard no longer, and those uniforms were not designed with mothers-to-be in mind." In actuality, Tauriel found the uniforms more comfortable and practical than the legless garb most females favored and would probably wear them again after the babe arrived. But for now, she wore a mint green gown in the Elvish style, scoop-necked and bell-sleeved and, most importantly, waistless.

"Well, your new attire becomes you," the other elleth smiled. "How do you feel? Are you well? You look as though motherhood agrees with you."

"I've never felt better. My neighbors, Bell and Peony, are forever telling me how envious they are that I haven't any nausea, indigestion, backache, shortness of breath . . . Well, I've given up trying to remember their litany of complaints! My feet are a bit swollen, I find myself overheated on occasion, and I'm certainly clumsier than I used to be—yesterday I walked _into_ a door instead of _through_ it—but otherwise I feel ready to conquer the world."

"And you may mean that quite literally, _mellon_ _nín_ , but let us start by conquering childbirth," the healer said to the warrior maid, only half in jest.

"Oh, Glaewen," Tauriel sighed, "how thankful I am that you are here! I sent the signal early to give you ample time to make the trip, but I didn't know if you would be able or willing to travel so far."

"Willing? For thee, _mellon_ _nín_ , always. As for able, I didn't know at first that I would be, but I got leave to visit my father in Imladris and asked for his help— No, do not worry, I told him only that I wished to visit an old friend in the Grey Havens before she sailed. He arranged for me to travel with some other Noldor heading West, and when we came to Bree, I told them I wanted to rest there for several days and could find my own way after that. It was easy enough to inquire at an inn for direction to Hobbiton, and so here I am!"

The redhead clasped the other elleth's arm. "Thou art a true friend, Glaewen," she said, using the familiar form reserved for when elves wished to show great affection. Then she lowered her eyes. "A better one than I fear I deserve."

The brunette knit her brow, mystified. " _Muin nín_ , why ever would you say such a thing?"

Remembering how distant she had been prior to her departure from the Woodland, Tauriel said, "I wasn't much of a friend in the months before I left."

"Then neither was I." The healer clasped the warrior's arm in return. "If I had been, I would've seen that you were ailing long before you told me. _Goheno nin._ Forgive me, my friend."

"Only if you will forgive me."

"Done."

The two friends smiled at each other, their mood light enough for Tauriel to quip that all she needed now was for King Thranduil to be so forgiving. "Oh, I fear he has banished you for good this time!" Glaewen bemoaned, making a sympathetic face. But the redhead was quick to reaffirm that she had no intention of darkening Thranduil's door ever again. Then, as if instinctively aware that she was about to touch on a delicate matter, Glaewen lowered her voice.

"Tauriel, how came you to be here and not at Erebor? When I received your sign in a parcel bearing the mark of Hobbiton, I must admit I was greatly confused."

"We will speak of it later." Tauriel also dropped her voice and leaned in, though for a different purpose. "Regarding that sign, do you have it still?"

"The cloth rag?"

Tauriel winced. "It's called a _doily_. Thank the Valar you still have it! I really do need it— Oh, but don't give it to me now!" And she whirled around to smile at Bilbo, who was ambling toward them.

The hobbit heaved a sigh of resignation too exaggerated to be taken seriously. "More guests, I suppose?"

"Just one."

With a wry smile, he offered his hand. "Welcome to Bag End. Bilbo Baggins, your host for the night. In the morning, we'll find a place for _both_ of you to live."

A moment later, the trio ducked inside, just in time for afternoon tea. But as they did, none of them noticed the particularly sizable thrush that alighted on the hedge bordering the hobbit-hole.

* * *

"You are truly content here?"

Tauriel smiled softly at Glaewen's question, pausing to relish the cool, burbling brook that soothed her swollen feet; the sunlight that dappled her upturned face; and the autumn-scented breeze that lifted the hair off her neck as gracefully as it did the leaves of scarlet and gold, whirling them through the forest clearing like dancers taking their final turn at a ball. "As much as I can hope to be without my _meleth e-guilen_? Yes. I am," she said.

It surprised her too sometimes, but she was more content here than she'd ever been in Thranduil's Halls. The land was unspoiled and far from the shadow of Dol Guldur, and the life was simple and pleasant. She and Bilbo had fallen into an agreeable routine of gardening together morns and cooking together noons and eves, and in between they went about their own pursuits and were responsible for their own meals. Bilbo often took advantage of this time to work on his book, while Tauriel went riding or walking in the woodlands, sometimes practicing her archery in one of the Shire's many open, uninhabited fields.

The people, too, were as warm and welcoming as she could've wished, and she was especially thankful for that now that she was too unwieldy to sit a horse and spent more of her afternoons taking tea with Bell, Peony, and their friends.

"I wouldn't have thought you'd get on so well with halflings. Or that they would get on with you."

"Oh, it took some adjustment on both sides, certainly. I'd been here only a few days when I realized most of the villagers had never seen an elf, much less an expectant one. Of course I got my share of stares and whispers in the beginning, and anyone who thinks elves can gossip should try living among hobbits!" Here Tauriel stopped to share a chuckle with her friend, who was intimately familiar with the gossip of elves. "But, with one or two exceptions,"— Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and Daddy Twofoot came to mind—"none of it was mean-spirited, merely curious, and I appreciated that they were forthright enough to ask their questions rather than let them ferment into wild half-truths. Their younglings in particular do not mince words!"

And she recounted the story of a spring afternoon during her first week in Hobbiton, when a group of children had ceased their play on the village green to surround her and her white stallion as she walked him to the smith's to be shoed. Questions had poured out of them as freely as milk from a spilled pitcher: Was Tauriel really, truly an elf? Were there lots more like her or only a few? Was it true that elves never slept? That they could see the hair on a hobbit's feet from a mile away and hear an acorn drop? That they could do magic, and would Tauriel show them some tricks? What about her horse? Couldn't Elvish horses fly? And later, when they saw her expanding waistline, they wanted to know all about elflings, though if their mothers were present, they got their elbows pinched for not minding their manners.

"In truth, Glaewen, I've never known what it was to be part of a community. To have friendships that weren't muddled by superiority of blood or inferiority of rank. In Hobbiton, some have more means than others, but they all live and work alongside each other. Even their most distinguished personage, the mayor, does little more than preside at holiday feasts to which everyone is invited! This is exactly the sort of place I imagined raising a child, and I've no doubt they will accept mine as they accepted me."

She felt the gentle press of the healer's hand on hers. "Then I am happy for thee, _mellon nín_. I only wish thy _melleth_ were here with thee so that thy joy could be complete!"

Tauriel bowed her head and said nothing because she couldn't. Gandalf had forbidden her to tell even her nearest and dearest that Kíli lived. Glaewen knew only that the warrior elf had loved a dwarf from Thorin's company and lost him at the Battle of Five Armies. Tauriel had been forced to admit that much to her friend when she left Thranduil's Halls intending to raise her child among the Dwarves of Erebor, but she'd told Glaewen nothing more since then.

The brunette blushed. "I must confess, though, I can't begin to picture the couple the two of you would've made. When you first told me you'd fallen in love with a dwarf, I was so astonished I thought you must be jesting."

"Oh, now, it can't be _that_ astonishing. You told me yourself there were certain rumors that I was a dwarf-loving traitor."

"Well, there's love and then there's _love_. I dare say no one guessed the latter." Then she bit her lip and said tentatively, "I don't want to give offense, but may I ask how you came to choose such a one? I've heard they are a brave, strong race but so ill-tempered!"

"No offense taken," Tauriel reassured her, but she didn't answer right away. The minutes passed as she allowed herself, for the first time since she'd arrived in Hobbiton, to reinhabit the mind of the elf she'd been in Laketown nearly a dozen moons ago. To recall those mixed emotions and sensations in their full intensity without shifting, as was now her habit, to less complicated thoughts of the babe and their approaching life together. Finally she said, "He was like fire. And I had been so cold for so long. The light in his eyes . . . I wish you could've seen it!" She shook her head, unable to do justice in words to the image she saw so clearly in memory. "He wasn't fair of face perhaps, but he was so bright of spirit! He _was_ brave and strong, as you said, but it wasn't an ill temper that burned within him; it was a passion for life and love and the things he believed in."

"He _does_ sound bright of spirit! But . . . even the brightest mortal spirit is still mortal. How could you—? I mean, how did you know you would be able to bond with him?"

"I didn't. If anything, I might've hoped we _wouldn't_ bond, not in the way you and I understand it. I knew it was likely I would lose him one way or another, and maybe I was selfish enough to think that because he was mortal, I could love him as mortals do, for one moment in time."

"But why would you _want_ such a love?" Glaewen blurted in confusion.

Tauriel's eyes glazed, lost in memory as she watched the sun ripple over the stream like melted gold. "After my family was taken from me, I forgot what it was to _mean_ something to someone, to have significance beyond my rank and race. To see _myself_ reflected in their eyes instead of just a captain of the guard. In an army of elves as numerous as the stars, Glaewen, I dedicated my life to distinguishing myself among them. But he is—he _was_ —the only one ever to make me feel as though I was the only star he saw." As she continued, her voice rose with fervor. "How could I _not_ take hold of what little time was granted us to _feel_ something so bright and so pure? I thought then it wouldn't be love as elves know it, but that was simply because I did not know love! Now I know it has no bounds of race or rank or age; it is not limited by time or space or even by mortality. It transcends death itself."

The dark-haired elleth's hand was on hers again. "Forgive me, Tauriel, I didn't mean to upset thee with my foolish questions."

The redhead gave her friend a wane smile. "Thou hast not." It was her own thoughts that upset her, the flood of images of what was once hers and would never be again, the reminder that her love for Kíli had survived death, but his for her had not.

"I think I do understand. What is harder to grasp is how the dwarves could turn you away from Erebor after you risked your reputation and lost favor with your king for their sake!"

Once more, Tauriel was at a loss to explain without explaining too much. Finally, she said, "There are many different kinds of love, Glaewen. The dwarves, I think, love duty best. Harboring an elf under the mountain would've conflicted with that sense of duty, I think."

Her friend was indignant. "But your child is half-dwarven! Have they no sense of duty toward it?"

"I did not tell them of the child. There was no opportunity. It soon became plain how they felt about me, and what life could the little one expect in a place where its mother was so unwanted? So I left. And that was when I met Gandalf. When he told me about Hobbiton, I decided to make a new life, to take the love I'd known for but a moment and give it to the babe forevermore."

Glaewen sighed, and her violet eyes took on a starry light. "Oh, but surely such a love was worth experiencing, if only for that moment! I wish I too could know a love like that, but alas, a healer is married to her work."

"So was I, I thought, until I met my _melleth_. I would not abandon that wish for yourself. Not yet."

The brunette ducked her head. "You know, I must confess I was one of those who always thought you fancied Prince Legolas," she said sheepishly. "And in the last ten or twenty years, I was beginning to suspect you'd caught his eye, as well."

Tauriel's smile was tolerant, but she shook her head. "How _is_ Legolas? Have you heard word?"

"More than word. I've seen him myself."

The other elleth stared, unsure what it was she felt at this news.

"He came back to call on his friends and say a proper farewell shortly before your signal arrived. He was still there when I left for Hobbiton, but I was given to understand his visit would be brief. He's traveling the Wilderland, you know."

"I did not know."

"He . . . he asked after you. I told him nothing, of course. Only that you'd left for parts unknown." Glaewen paused, perhaps unsure if she should say more. "He looks well, Tauriel. But . . . there is a shadow about his eyes. As if something haunts him."

The former captain lowered her own eyes. She hoped _she_ wasn't what haunted him. Still, she wondered what he would've said to her if she'd been there for him to say it. She was grateful when Glaewen changed the subject.

"So have you chosen a name for the babe?"

Tauriel brightened. "I have."

She'd known the little one's sex for some moons now. It was a sense that came to an expectant elleth as her babe grew and asserted its individuality, just as she sensed that the little one was invigorated by long walks, rested better at night when she hummed in tune with the stars, and had a fondness for Bell's lemon drizzle cakes while sharing Bilbo's distaste for Peony's pasties.

However, it was a strange task for her to choose a name given that elves bore up to four names throughout life, and the first, bestowed at birth, was traditionally chosen by the father to reflect the child's heritage. An elfling would receive a mother-name, too, but not until he or she was old enough to develop a distinct personality on which to base that name. Since Kíli was not present, it would fall to Tauriel to bestow both names, but it pained her that her child would grow up without this rightful gift from a father.

She consoled herself by remembering that the name she'd selected was one that honored the traditional purpose of a father-name as best she could. Besides, her own name didn't follow tradition in more than one way, and she was none the worse for it.

"Not telling, hm?" Glaewen teased. "I suppose we won't know whether it's an ellon or an elleth before the birth, either?"

"I will let the babe surprise you himself . . . " the expectant mother smiled, and when Glaewen gasped at her friend's imagined slip of the tongue, continued, " . . . _or_ herself!"

"Sea and stars, you are a wicked tease!"

"I won't deny it," the redhead returned. "Come, _mellon nín_. The sun is low, and there is a thrush above us singing its evensong. Bilbo will be starting dinner, and we should be a-bed early so we can find ourselves another place to live in the morning!"

"Did the halfling really mean that?"

"Oh, he says it every night!"

And, with that, they linked arms and strolled home to Bag End, placing a friendly wager on whether Bell and Peony would be there with soggy pasties when they got back.

* * *

Guren linna a chened le—My heart sings to see you

elo—stars

A/N: What do you guys think? Will Tauriel have a boy or a girl? Any guesses what she'll name the baby? :)


	15. Chapter 15 - A Life Dreamed

A/N: First, thanks to everyone who stopped by to leave an encouraging word or to offer a guess about the baby! Even if you just took a minute to follow or favorite, you have my thanks for that, too! :)

Second, this chapter was originally supposed to be the last scene of last week's chapter, but I quickly found it getting longer and longer until I realized it was a chapter in its own right. Consider this an interlude before the baby arrives because we all deserve some fluff and a glimpse of how things might've been for Kili and Tauriel ... and of how they can one day be.

Mona: Next week the baby will be here, so you'll find out if your guess was right. :) Thanks for reading and reviewing!

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 15**

 **A Life Dreamed**

* * *

 _"Kíli . . . "_

He woke with a start, and force of habit instantly guided his hands to the three hidden blades that were never out of reach when he slept. Aye, all there, and the bedchamber was empty and silent except for his own harsh breathing. He couldn't recall having a nightmare. So what had awakened him?

" _Kíli . . . "_

Someone was calling his name! A feminine voice, light and musical.

He rose from the bed; pulled on trousers underneath his long, loose nightshirt; tucked a few daggers into his clothes; unbolted the bedchamber door; and went to the entrance to his suite.

The guards normally posted in the hall were not there. Could all four dwarrow really have chosen the same night to be derelict in their duties, an offense punishable with imprisonment, or was something more sinister afoot?

" _Kíli . . . "_

The royal wing, which currently housed just himself and his mother, was located on the uppermost full level of the city, along with wings for the nobility and chief officials. Only the throne room was situated above, a single flight of stairs ascending to it from a central square where the wings intersected. When the square was crowded and the conversation especially boisterous, it was possible to hear distant murmurings in the passageway outside his suite. But to Kíli's confusion, the ethereal voice did not emanate from the direction of the square but from the other end of the hall, where there was nought but unoccupied suites.

Kíli made sure to lock his door behind him. Then, with one hand on the hilt of a dagger—the voice was female, but even some female dwarves, like his mother, had weapons training—he followed the sound.

He seldom passed this way as there was no reason, but now, for the sake of security, he was forced to glance through the open doors of the dark, vacant rooms meant for the heir apparent and successive princes.

All were clear.

The King of Erebor couldn't help lingering for a moment outside the first two suites to read the runes inscribed over the doorways—blessings for the crown prince, "The Heir of Durin," and for his right-hand defender, "The Axe and Hammer." Once these chambers had been built for Thorin and Frerin, and had things been different, they would have belonged to Fíli and himself. The sight of them now was no longer a sharp, stabbing pain but a hollow ache, a reminder of the chambers in his own heart that no one but those he'd lost could fill.

At the end of the hallway, Kíli came face to face with an iron door. This, he knew, led to a steep, narrow staircase to what was called the Sky Terrace or, more colloquially, the Top o' the Mount, a private, open-air viewing deck built on the very pinnacle of Mt. Erebor, which most dwarves had heard tales of but few had seen. Though he'd been informed it was a popular spot for festivities in his great-grandfather's day, Kíli had been up there only once, thinking it might be a good place to be alone of an evening. But just one look at the vast, unbroken expanse of stars had reminded him too painfully of one who loved them, and whenever someone suggested they might congregate there with some good food and drinks, he made up an excuse not to.

Usually the door was locked, but tonight it stood ajar. Only he and Dís had a key, and his mother liked to retire early. Kíli frowned, wondering who could be up there.

" _My King Kíli . . . "_

There could be no mistaking that the voice was drifting down from somewhere further up the stairway. Did he only imagine something teasing in the way she said his title? He held his breath and, raising his dagger, flung the door wide.

No enemy flew at him with brandished weapon. The spiraling stairwell was empty, and nothing leapt up but the flames in their sconces on either side, disturbed by the sudden draft through the open door.

 _But then a chime of laughter! And a shuffle of slippers just ahead out of view._

Kíli took the stairs two at a time, the shuffling always round the next bend, till there were no more bends, and he was out in the crisp night air of autumn, the scents of apple and hickory smoke riding the currents from Dale, the sky its own glittering cavern of gemstones in some celestial mine.

The Sky Terrace was nothing like he remembered it, a flat, unfurnished and undecorated expanse of granite tile bordered by a stone retaining wall, beyond which the mountainsides dropped off at a dizzying angle. Tonight, torches blazed merrily at all four corners of the deck, holding the darkness at bay. Their warm glow illuminated a low but luscious table spread with steaming venison, salmon slathered with herbs, golden bread and sliced cheese, sweet potatoes drizzled in butter, a creamy dessert custard . . . in short, a feast fit for a dwarven king. Plush cushions in the teal and gold hues of the House of Durin were scattered round the table in an invitation to dine. Beyond, by the terrace wall, stone benches awaited, and someone had set up a telescope, its long, slim neck inclined toward the stars. That someone was peering through the delicate instrument even now, unmistakable red hair cascading down her back like molten lava in the torchlight.

Kíli gasped. "Tauriel . . . ?" It couldn't be her! She may have been just down the mountainside, across the valley, and through the wood, but until this moment, that had seemed to his heart like the other side of the world.

She cast a fleeting smile over her shoulder. "There you are! I was beginning to think you'd never come."

He swallowed thickly, at once painfully reminded of his vow by the Long Lake. "I promised you I would come no matter what." Approaching her now took more courage than when he'd feared she was an assassin, but he put one foot in front of the other until he stood directly behind her.

"And so you have."

This time she turned to face him fully, and he absorbed the vision before him: her eyes as radiant as twin stars; her teasingly affectionate smile; her tall, statuesque form draped in a gown of teal and gold as though she were clothed in the night sky. And then his eyes went round.

Round as her belly, for his _amrâlimê_ was heavy with child! _His_ child, Kíli realized with a rush of awe and pride and excitement and tenderness and too many other emotions to fit into his heart crowding and bumping up against each other.

She cradled his face in her slender hands, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to his mouth in greeting, but he was too shocked to do more than stand there and let her. Minutes later, his lips still tingled, and he thought if he could look into a mirror he might see them glow.

"The council ran late?"

 _Council?_ There had been no council meeting tonight. But even as his mind formed the words, his confusion dissolved and was replaced by the certainty that Frithr and Glóin _had_ been rather long-winded in session earlier.

Not a moment later, Kíli's attention was irresistibly drawn back to his love's unexpected girth. A _bairn_! How was this possible when they'd only lain together that one time nigh on a year ago? Could that single hasty coupling truly have wrought such a lasting miracle?

As for Tauriel, she seemed oblivious to his amazement, conversing easily while she placed his big, rough, thick-fingered hands over her swollen belly as if she did this all the time. And the next minute, as he felt the curve of her under his palm, it seemed to him that she did, that for months now he'd known an expectant mother's belly didn't feel soft and pliant the way it looked but firm and unyielding, a protective shield for the little life within, and his shock melted into a warm sureness because _of course_ she was carrying his bairn, just as he'd known all along. Everything was exactly the way it was supposed to be.

" . . . glad I asked Kóra to wait on sending up the dishes from the kitchens, or they should've gone cold by now," she was saying, closing her hands over his as they spanned her enlarged waist. "I hope you like the custard. It's Bombur's new recipe! I tried it this afternoon when I was visiting with his wife. Their new babe has grown so big, Kíli, and he eats so much! More than I did even eating for two! I asked 'Imdala if that was customary for dwarflings, and she said it was, but I suppose she's learned to read my—How does Bofur put it?—'enchantingly disenchanted face' because then she thought better of it and said since you're only half as big as Bombur, your bairn should eat only half as much. So now I know not what to believe! But you should see him, Kíli—he's so mischievous and doesn't sit in one place longer than it takes a leaf to fall, which is so unlike an elfling, who'd content himself to look at a book of pictures for at least an hour or so at that age. I don't know what in the Wild we'll do if our own babe turns out to be half as restless, for 'Imdala and Bombur have got fourteen other children to run after the little one, and we've none . . . "

Kíli couldn't stop smiling. Smiling stupidly, to be sure, but he didn't care. He'd never seen his _amrâlimê_ so animated or heard such a long, uninterrupted string of sentences tumble forth from her lips. She fairly sparkled like one of her stars! It took him a moment to realize her voice had trailed off into silence.

"Forgive me, _meleth nín_ ," she said abruptly. "Here I've been prattling on about nothing whilst the supper grows cold after all!"

"I'm not hungry." When her face fell, he amended, "I just want to feast my eyes on _you_."

"Oh, what nonsense!" she scoffed, but she smiled and colored prettily as his dark eyes, which were indeed hungry all of a sudden, darted back and forth in an effort to memorize every line of her face, tracing a constellation between her perfect features.

Then she yelped, startling him. "Did you feel that?"

Aye, he'd felt it, and his jaw went slack with wonder. Her belly was prodding his hand!

"There it is again!"

The strong, decisive kick of a tiny heel.

"Mahal, the bairn gets feistier by the day!" she exclaimed with a grin.

And Kíli grinned too, not just at his energetic progeny but at the graceful elf who'd adopted his Dwarvish vernacular.

"We'll have to start sleeping apart so this one doesn't give your shins a sound kicking in the night!"

Kíli's breath hitched at this mention of their sleeping arrangements. Did he really hold this beautiful creature in his arms at night, close enough to feel the child within her kick?

 _Of course he did._ And with his knees tucked up against her or wrapped around her, her fair skin cool and sleek against him, memories he could scarcely believe were his own and not someone else's he was lucky enough to borrow for a few minutes.

"Never," he said fervently to this notion of sleeping apart. "The bairn can kick me till I'm black and blue before I spend a single night apart from you, _amrâlimê_ , I don't care . . . " His voice grew huskier as he finished the sentence, and he ended on his toes, straining upward even as his fingers threaded through hers drew her downward until their lips met in a sweet, lingering kiss. When they parted, both smiled softly in a promise of more to come.

He led her to the terrace wall, from which there was a panoramic view of all the settlements—Dwarvish, Elvish, and Mannish—from here to the Misty Mountains twinkling like camps of fireflies in the night. At first, the dwarven king tried to embrace the taller elf as he often did, standing behind her with his cheek turned against her back and his arms encircling her waist, but they both soon realized her waist was now too wide for his arms to encircle. After a brief chuckle, he maneuvered them into a different favored position in which _she_ stood behind _him_ , _her_ arms clasped around _his_ waist and her chin resting on his head. But her belly once again proved to be an obstacle, and after more chuckling, they seated themselves side by side on the bench by the wall.

"Tell me what else you did today, my love," he said when they were settled.

"Well, after I took luncheon with 'Imdala, I went to the bowyer Dwalin recommended to see if he carried any lighter Elvish imports so I can keep up with target practice till the babe arrives."

"Elvish imports?" Kíli echoed blankly, wondering how the council had ever approved of them. Tauriel gave him a strange look, and with that, he realized that _naturally_ Erebor traded in weapons with both elven kingdoms this side of the Misty Mountains as well as with Rivendell. "Did you find anything you liked?"

"Alas, no! He'd sold the last of the batch just days ago, though I can't imagine who in Erebor has a long enough draw for an Elvish bow."

Kíli smirked, but before he could open his mouth, the redheaded beauty shot him a sidelong glance and said, "Yes, I know, present company excepted." His smirk widened into a saucy grin. His uncommon height, once an embarrassment in his youth, now provided certain advantages such as the ability to shoot with Tauriel's bow in a pinch even if it wasn't particularly comfortable, a fact which irked her every time she had to readjust it after he'd used it.

"In any event, the bowyer offered to draw up a custom design, and his craftsmanship was such that I'd certainly buy in future, but there's no time for him to make a bow to my current specifications. By the time it's finished, I'll already have outgrown it!"

"There now, love," Kíli soothed, patting her hand. "You'll only have to endure one more month of watching me easily and consistently trounce you at the targets."

"True enough," she answered in the same dry tone as his. "I hope you use this time wisely to restock your arrows since after the babe comes, you'll be hard-pressed to leave the range with any mine have not split."

With the corners of their mouths twitching, they both struggled not to look at each other lest either be the first to laugh, and somehow he knew she was right that their ongoing rivalry often ended in her splitting his arrows right down the middle.

He also knew he was absurdly proud of her for it.

Finally he managed, "Did anything else of interest happen whilst Rathi was boring me to tears reading a twenty-foot scroll of legislative amendments?"

"No, just a visit from your mother after I returned from the bowyer."

Kíli whipped his head around. "My mother? What did _she_ want?"

Tauriel met his wary gaze with a coolly arched brow. "She came bearing gifts. Or, I should say, _a_ gift. For our child."

He was dumbfounded. "Really?" Then he narrowed his eyes. "What was it?"

"Not a bottle of gallows-weed milk, if that's what you're thinking."

He snorted. "I almost wouldn't put it past her."

"A cradle quilt."

"Really," he repeated, disbelief still heavy in his voice.

"Yes. It's beautiful. The stitching is remarkably intricate. She said it belonged to you once and to Fíli before you. It depicts the history of your house and the most renowned ancestors of your line extending all the way back to—"

"Durin the Deathless," he completed, picturing the most renowned of them all peering into the quilted lake to see himself crowned with quilted stars. "I remember. I slept beneath that quilt till I was five, maybe six years old. It's been in the family for generations. I'm not even sure how many. I can't believe she gave it to you."

"She did. Albeit because she had no use of it anymore, or so she said."

"And then what?"

"Then we talked. For the better part of an hour."

"About what?" he croaked.

"Oh, things that mothers talk about," was her vague reply.

"Like how some mothers refuse to acknowledge that their half-elven grandchild will one day rule the dwarven world?" he grumbled.

"You know, _meleth nín_ , I do think she's very keen to meet her grandchild, but we mustn't let on that we know it."

Kíli snorted again. "She's hardly made of glass, Tauri. We needn't tiptoe round her feelings on eggshells. She certainly doesn't tiptoe round ours."

"Not at all. She's clearly made of tougher stuff—like the granite of this mountain. When her mind is made up, she has an unbendable will. But apply too much pressure to something that can't bend, and it will break. That would do no one any good. The last thing this family needs is more broken ties, whether severed by death, greed, or prejudice."

"Ever the strategist." He smiled fondly and tucked a strand of fiery hair behind her ear mostly as an excuse to caress her cheek. "So you think we should let her accept the bairn on her own terms then? I'm not sure we will like her terms."

"Not exactly. Think of how a mason sands stone, gently wearing away its roughest edges."

"Oh, I've tried the gentle approach, love. All my life."

She smiled at him then, what he thought of as her secret smile. "I'm not speaking of you." When he raised his eyebrows, she said, "The babe will be the mason."

As understanding dawned, he broke into a grin. "You think she won't be able to resist our handsome lad?"

"Or lass," she corrected, for even though she knew the bairn's sex, she wanted it to be a surprise for everyone else, which Kíli loudly proclaimed was terribly unfair to him but quietly relished because he loved trying to trick her into revealing it.

"I think all granite is worn over time. What most concerns your mother is that elven blood will dilute the majesty of the line of Durin. But we know any child of yours will be blessed with strength and bravery and loyalty and heart—"

"And any child of yours with speed and agility and patience and mercy . . . and a talent for outwitting my mother!" Kíli interjected.

The warrior elf shook her head a bit, biting her lower lip to keep from smiling, but didn't deny it. "In short, the qualities that make for a good leader. And when your mother sees these qualities and realizes that, if anything, your line has been strengthened, I believe it will soften her objections."

"From your lips to Mahal's ears, _amrâlimê_." He tightened his large hand over her small one and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. Then he replaced his thumb with his lips and peeked up at her, eyes sparking with mischief. "I admire how you've put so much thought into the skills our child will need to be a good king," he murmured, concealing his smirk against the back of her hand. There was a pause during which he prepared to celebrate his hard-won victory, for as soon as she said aye, she'd be forced to admit that kings were male and thus so was the bairn.

"I believe I spoke of qualities that make for a good _leader_."

He uttered a mild curse in Khuzdul, but his eyes were dancing. "Among dwarves, only a male may wear the crown. You know that, _amrâlimê_."

"Does your mother not wear a crown?" she asked innocently.

This time a chortle escaped him, for as a princess, Dís did indeed wear a crown, but Tauriel's "misunderstanding" was entirely willful. "Am I _never_ to know whether I've fathered a lad or a lass?" he burst out, half in amusement, half in frustration.

"You will," she assured him. "They say it's very obvious once the afterbirth has been thoroughly cleaned."

"Durin's beard, lass, are you sure you're not a dwarrowdam disguised as an elf? And to think I was congratulating myself on having wisely chosen someone older and more mature than I when all the while you were a tease fit to make stone blush!"

"Oh, but you adore it when I tease you." She cocked one slender brow, and suddenly she wasn't referring to the bairn anymore.

An answering heat instantly smoldered in the dark coals of his eyes. "Oh, yes," he breathed, sliding into the same suggestive intonation, "I do . . . "

In the flickering torchlight, their silhouettes slanted and merged, and it was a long time before they parted again.

"Oh! But we can't leave yet!" Tauriel protested in response to whatever Kíli had whispered in her ear, and he leaned back to admire the heightened color in her cheeks and smiled to himself at the breathlessness in her voice. "I've not yet shown you what I brought you here to see!" And as if she were afraid she would never show him if she didn't move away from his touch right that instant, she leapt up from the bench with striking agility for one so heavy with child and began to adjust the height of the telescope, an effortful task that required much twisting of squeaky knobs and pushing of stubborn levers. Not one to watch his expectant elleth put herself out for his sake, Kíli soon rose and wordlessly relieved her of her work, inserting himself between her and the instrument to finish what she'd started.

"Now, what exactly am I looking for?" he asked once the eyepiece was at the proper level. Squinting through it, he saw only blackness and some hazy blobs that made him feel as if he'd been staring into a fire for too long. He didn't have much practice with this contraption and hoped he could find whatever it was quickly so he could make good on the promise he'd murmured a minute ago into her elegantly pointed (and deliciously sensitive) elven ear.

"I wanted to show you the constellation under which your firstborn will enter the world."

Oh. That sounded like something he should be taking seriously. "Do your people put stock in such things?" He hoped not _too_ much stock because all he could think of right now was how swollen her lips still looked from his kiss.

"Don't yours? Durin the Deathless with his crown of stars?" Her hand glided tenderly over his brow, alighting for a moment where the golden circlet would have rested, and the teasing lilt to her tone told him she knew they weren't going to be doing much stargazing tonight.

When she lowered her mouth to place a chaste kiss on his forehead, his eyelids fluttered closed, and when she kissed each of those also in turn, his eyes felt heavy, so heavy . . .

He couldn't open them as she kissed both his cheeks and then, sweetly, the tip of his nose and at last his lips, which parted without hesitation so he could taste the wine and honey of her mouth. She was intoxicating, and his head reeled when she deepened the kiss, her hands cupping his face to draw him closer. He leaned into her and felt the press of her belly between them.

Her belly that carried the child they'd dreamt up out of fragments of ancestral tales, snippets of secret confessions, and barely dared hopes for the future; forged in the blaze of a firemoon with a fumbling, exuberant passion; and blessed under the white light of forever with the sweetest, sincerest love. And suddenly he knew in that unquestioning way that one knows things in a dream that he was holding in his arms the purpose of his life.

But his eyes were so heavy, and he was falling. Falling for Tauriel all over again, falling in love with their child, falling asleep . . .

And when he woke, his bedchamber was empty and silent, but this time no one called his name, and his cheeks were wet with tears.

* * *

A/N: Ugh! Bittersweet, I know . . .

Up next—yes, the baby is coming and will be here next time! :D


	16. Chapter 16 - A Long Wait

A/N: I owe my thanks to all you reviewers out there for your support and encouragement! Thank you also if you added this fic to your follows or favorites since the last update! And an extra special thank-you to my beta, Moonraykir, for so clearly pointing out what parts weren't. Clear, that is. :)

This chapter is called "A Long Wait," and I apologize that it's been a long wait for this chapter! A big old wild hare of a plot bunny plunked itself down in my path and refused to budge until I'd followed it for awhile. Fortunately, I liked where it went. ;) As a thank-you for your patience, I have some "extended edition" material this week. :) Those of you who were hoping to see Glaewen's reaction when Tauriel admitted that her true love was a dwarf can now find it in my newly revised Chap. 6. And in response to an anonymous reviewer who was confused about why Tauriel wanted to raise her child in Erebor in the first place, I've also expanded on her reasoning in the same chapter.

WARNING: The following contains a mildly graphic depiction of childbirth and references to complications in childbirth. Reader discretion is advised.

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 16**

 **A Long Wait**

* * *

By force of habit, Tauriel ignored the clock on the mantel, instead gauging the time to be two hours before dawn by the position of the moon that shone through her window. It seemed more difficult to rest well with each passing night, so she wasn't especially disturbed to be wide awake now, but the persistent ache in her lower back was more troubling.

She wrapped her dressing gown around herself and glided silently into the darkened kitchen as only an elf could do in the late stages of her bearing. Maybe a cup of Glaewen's raspberry leaf tea would be the remedy, she thought.

It wasn't. The ache only worsened, and within the hour she was knocking on the door of the guest chamber where the elven healer was staying. The door swung open to reveal a sleepy Glaewen in a nightdress, her long, dark hair loose about her shoulders. " _Mellon_ ," Tauriel said, green eyes wide with worry, "I think the babe is coming."

"Do not be afraid, _muin nín_ ," Glaewen said a short while later as Tauriel's rocking chair groaned with the mother-to-be's restless motion. She lit one of a half dozen or so candles scattered about the bedchamber. "Since you left the Woodland, I've read much about dwarven births. As dwarves are smaller of stature than we are, so their younglings are likewise born smaller than ours. Their bones are thicker and sturdier, but at birth these are still light and flexible enough that I don't believe they will prove any hindrance to the fast and easy labor for which the Eldar are known. Predictably, you've carried small—perhaps not as small as if the child were a full-blooded dwarfling but small nonetheless—and any resistance due to bone density should be countered by the babe's modest size." The last candle flickered to life, and the brunette beauty turned with a smile. "So do not fear, my friend. I do not expect you will have much pain."

The creak of the rocker ceased, though its occupant's gaze remained distant, almost entranced. "It's not the pain I fear."

It was the loss of command over her body, which Tauriel knew would soon react in ways she couldn't foresee or prevent, and to struggle with her own _hröa_ as one would an enemy was more terrifying to her than any battle she'd ever faced.

Shortly after sunup, she sent Bilbo to fetch Bell and Peony. Although Glaewen had reservations about hobbits attending an elven birth, Tauriel's new friends had insisted that she send for them when it was her time, and she didn't want to be so ungracious as to reject their help. Besides, as knowledgeable as Glaewen was, she'd never given birth herself; it eased Tauriel's mind to know she would also be assisted by two mothers who had lived through the strange, discomfiting sensations she was now experiencing.

As the first rays of the sun peeked through the window and then more boldly illuminated the elven warrior who paced within, Tauriel centered herself like she always did before battle and waited to fight—not till the death this time but till the first breath of life.

* * *

When Kíli emerged from his suite at sunup still in his nightshirt and trousers, his personal guard stood at attention, raised their fists as one, and swung them sharply downward in the morning salute to the king known as Durin's Axe. All were present and accounted for, although he couldn't quite remember why he'd feared they might not be. "At ease," he said with a curt nod right before a familiar voice called his name.

"Kí—er, er—Your Majesty!" Ori still sometimes forgot to address his nearly same-age fourth cousin by title and always blushed and stammered afterward even though Kíli never corrected him. He stood under the archway at the juncture of the royal and noble wings with his fellow Council scribe, Young Thorin. "Will you take breakfast with us at Bombur's? He's griddling up rashers of that boar his eldest brought down last week, the one bigger than Bombur himself!"

"And I've the artillery requisitions ready for your signature." Young Thorin held up a dauntingly thick scroll. Couldn't even wait till after breakfast to talk politics, that one.

"Oh, and Bombur's got a new kind of custard for dessert!"

 _A new kind of custard . . ._

Memories slammed into him. A torchlit table overflowing with meat and cheese and potatoes and . . .

 _"I hope you like the custard. It's Bombur's new recipe!"_

 _And Tauriel._

"Meet you there," Kíli called to his young cousins, barely sparing a wave before he broke into a most un-regal run in the opposite direction.

"Ah, _galikh bakn_ , _inùdoy_!" Dís emerged from her chamber patting the last of the auburn plaits she'd wrapped round her head just minutes ago. "But where are you off to in such a hurry at this hour?"

Kíli sighed and pulled up short to greet her, setting his jaw as he awaited the inevitable second half of her question: _"And why are you not dressed presentably?"_ But though her quizzical eyes swept the length of him, it never came. Instead she said, "I'd the strangest dream last night."

"Dream?" Kíli echoed with sudden interest.

"Aye. Do you remember—oh, you were very young then—the day your _'adad_ took us to see the wild pony roundup as they crossed the plains during spring migration? He wanted to show you and Fíli what you could look forward to riding in a few years' time."

Kíli nodded. This sounded familiar.

"A beautiful day it was, the sun too warm for overcoats and the wildflowers all in bloom!" Her eyes clouded. "But then a lone wolf came out of nowhere and gave chase to a young foal, and you lads were distraught. Fíli was helpless to do anything with that child-sized dagger of his. But you took your slingshot and—quick as a wink—pelted that mangy beast right between the eyes! The blow didn't kill him, of course, but it frightened him away, and your _'adad_ told you that someday you'd be a great archer, better even than he. He was so proud of you!" Dís's voice had taken on a dreamy tone, and her dark eyes, so often now hard and cool as black ice, seemed to melt in the warmth of that long-ago spring day.

"I remember," her son said softly.

The building anticipation of an outing with _'Adad_. The terrifying vibration of hoofbeats drumming in his chest. The exhilaration of soaring up into the air to view the blur of streaking manes and spotted hides from the safety of sure, strong arms.

And then the throat-clenching desperation to defend one weaker than he, the earnest desire to prove himself before the one who'd taught him, and the swell of satisfaction when it was all over and _'Adad_ praised him for a job well done. For nothing pleased little Kíli more than to see the strapping, golden-haired dwarf's eyes crinkle while his cheeks reddened, which meant he was smiling beneath his bushy beard, and to know that the smile was for him.

He remembered it all.

"Oh, that was a wonderful afternoon, full of songs and games and laughter! We made a picnic of it. Your _'adad_ worked so hard to provide for us that we seldom had the luxury of such days together, but he loved you and Fíli so much. You were the diamonds of his eye!" Then her face fell, another memory extinguishing the light in her eyes as fast as the first had sparked it. "He didn't live to see the next spring roundup." When she wrenched her gaze back to Kíli, it was troubled. "I dreamt we were there again, all of us together. But you and Fí were full grown, and when the wolf came, your _'adad_ handed you your bow and arrow, but this time you said, 'Let the greater archer strike it.' What do you suppose that meant?"

"I'm sorry, but I don't know, _'Amad_." All he knew was that he too had had a dream, of Tauriel and their own bairn. He squeezed his mother's shoulder. "Excuse me. There's something I need to do just now."

"But it's almost breakfast time! You know they won't start without you. Kíli—"

"Tell them I'll be there shortly and for Mahal's sake not to wait!" he called over his shoulder as he dashed off in the opposite direction, toward the door at the end of the hall.

Kíli took the stairs two at a time until he was there, with nothing above him and the whole world at his feet:

The Sky Terrace.

The Top o' the Mount.

A flat expanse of granite tile, unfurnished and undecorated, bordered by a stone retaining wall.

No torches, no dinner table, no benches, no telescope. No trace of last night's dream anywhere to be seen.

 _No Tauriel._

He hadn't truly expected to find her here in the cold light of morning . . . had he? Still, Kíli's heart sank. To have glimpsed what might have been his had things been different—to have believed with his whole being that it _was_ his—only to wake to the reality that it never had been was too cruel. His eyes stung, and when he closed them, he felt a tear track down his cheek.

The King of Erebor was in no state to take breakfast with his family now. He would need a few minutes to compose himself. He blinked until his vision cleared.

The view from up here was unparalleled. On a big-blue-sky day in late autumn like this, one could see as far as the curve of the earth would allow. Kíli braced his fists on the wall, facing toward the Mirkwood, and it seemed to him that he could still catch the scent of apple and hickory smoke on the night air of his dream.

In starlight in another world, he'd stood in this very spot and held Tauriel in his arms.

But it wasn't only Tauriel he'd held. It was his child. In the dream, she'd been carrying _their child_.

He swallowed hard, remembering the far too brief, blissful moments on a night by the Long Lake almost exactly a year ago when all he could see before him and his _amrâlimê_ was a life full of their children.

 _Durin's beard!_ A tremulous thought shimmered before him, teasing, just out of reach: What if their union had resulted in a child? They'd only lain together that once, so it wasn't likely.

But it wasn't impossible. He'd heard of such things happening before.

Kíli gasped as a sudden, fierce joy robbed him of breath. In his mind's eye, he glimpsed himself lift a giggling redheaded youngling onto his shoulder to watch a herd of ponies thunder past. Could that be his future? Had he found the truth in a dream? It was said the Vala Lórien could reveal a hidden truth that way, something he'd never quite believed until now!

But no. He had to be rational about this. Tauriel had come to Erebor in the middle of April, six months after that night. Every expectant dwarrowdam he'd ever seen had begun to show before six months along, and the same was true of human women. So it stood to reason elves would be no different, and if Tauriel had been with child, he would've noticed the change in her shape.

Besides, surely she would've known by then if she carried his bairn, and if so, she would've told him.

 _Wouldn't she?_

Why _had_ Tauriel come to Erebor when she believed him dead? Kíli had asked her directly, and she'd said only that she had left the Mirkwood and was seeking his kingdom's protection and hospitality. His first thought had been that Thranduil or that damnable Prince Powder Puff had mistreated her in some way, yet she had denied it. But if she'd _not_ been ill-used in Thranduil's Halls, it made no sense to leave their safety to seek refuge with a race that would barely tolerate her. Unless she was carrying one of their own . . .

Kíli snorted and shook his head. _Wishful thinking._ That's all it was.

Had Tauriel come to find the bairn's remaining kin and instead found its father alive and well, _of course_ she would've told him of her condition. Why would she not? The child, if she carried one, would've been created in love and the scion of one of the most powerful dynasties in Arda. There could be no sound reason for her to withhold the bairn. Not only would that course of action deprive their son or daughter of a highly privileged upbringing, but it would also be an unjustified crime against the House of Durin and, moreover, against Kíli himself. True, they hadn't parted on good terms, to Kíli's everlasting regret, but the Tauriel he knew was too honorable, too genuine, too fair to deny him his own child because of its parents' quarrel. Having lost her own father so young, she of all people would understand how critical it was for a lad or lass to know the strength and security of a father's arms, the assurance of his proud smile.

No, his _amrâlimê_ would never betray him like that. No matter how real it felt, his dream of the bairn must've been just that, a dream.

And, in all honesty, it was better this way. Six months ago, Tauriel had come seeking refuge in a place where there was none to find. Kíli's unseen enemies had been (and maybe still were) intent on ending his life and had shown no qualms about ending any other lives that stood in their way. Had Tauriel been carrying the heir of Erebor, she would've been in even greater danger, for if they couldn't tolerate an "elf-lover" on the throne, they surely would not have spared an actual elf bearing a half-elven future king. Indeed, Kíli had made the heartwrenching choice to break with her and send her away to ensure she would never be targeted in that manner. If she'd come to him already with child, there would've been no choice. He would've been honor-bound to attempt to provide a home for her and the bairn in the very center of that swirling, churning, invisible threat. He shuddered to think what would've happened if he'd failed.

Someday, when he had vanquished that threat and Erebor was everything a home should truly be—safe, peaceful, welcoming—Kíli would go to the Mirkwood and, if Tauriel would still have him, bring her back as his bride. And then they would fill the mountain with children. He would take them on picnics and teach them to shoot and be everything to them that his own father had been to him.

Until then, he must content himself to know that his _amrâlimê_ lived. And that their bairn lived in his dreams.

* * *

Bell and Peony bustled into Bag End armed with reassuring stories ("Poor dear, I'd the back labor with my first, as well!"); folded bed linens, towels, cloths, and aprons; jars of oil, bouquets of herbs, and vials of various tinctures; a pitcher of caudle and pot of broth; and sewing instruments that a puzzled Bilbo scratched his head over, wondering when they'd have time for needlework.

Plus a basket full of pasties. "Your favorites, Bilbo!" Peony said.

"A whole basketful?" he gulped.

"Well, we'll need _something_ to keep us on our feet. Birthing's hard work, you know, and not just for the mum."

"I see," Bilbo grimaced, unsure which he felt queasier about, the birthing or the pasties.

Nevertheless, he was grateful to have his cousin and her friend here and the elven healer too. As distressed as he usually was at playing host to a great commotion in his own home, he knew the more hands there were about the hobbit-hole at present, the less his own would be needed in this frightfully painful, messy business. Although he'd never witnessed the miracle of birth firsthand, thank heavens, as a youngling, he'd shuddered at the _smial_ -shaking wails of laboring aunts when his mother was called upon to help them in their time of need. Nowadays, when he saw some anxious husband smoking on his stoop in the midst of an unnaturally sober gathering of neighborhood chaps, the memories so disturbed him that he gave the father-to-be an awkward clap on the shoulder, mumbled his best wishes, and hotfooted it home before anyone had the presence of mind to offer him a smoke.

Bell and Peony spread their supplies on the kitchen table, and Glaewen immediately began to sort them, nodding in approval at some of the herbs and tinctures, setting others aside, and adding some of her own before she left to look in on Tauriel. A pot of water was hung over the hearth to boil, and the cloths were soaked in it for "hot compresses," the lady hobbits said. Bell laid out a paring knife over the fire, and Bilbo eyed its cutting edge, which glinted an ominous blood red in the light of the flames.

"Wh-wh-what's that for?"

"Never you mind, Cousin. Leave that to us ladyfolk," said Peony, steering him away by the shoulders.

"It's for after the babe gets born," Bell explained, taking pity on the white-faced hobbit, who was surely imagining the worst. "To cut the cord that binds it to its mum." She was stirring the pot of broth with one practiced hand while sprinkling herbs with the other.

"D-does it hurt?"

"'Tis the birthing that hurts. When the cord's cut, neither of 'em feels a pinch."

"But that won't happen till sundown at the earliest, so you just take yourself a pasty and run along now, Bilbo."

He was starting to agree that he should make an escape to the Ivy Bush Inn, where fathers-to-be were often seen drinking away their nerves, when Glaewen breezed into the kitchen. "Don't go anywhere, Bilbo. Or at least anywhere you can't return from well before sundown."

Bell and Peony exchanged mystified glances.

"She's an elf. She heard you from the other room." Bilbo shrugged as the mystified glances landed on him. "What? I've been living with one for almost five months. I should think I'm used to it by now."

Glaewen continued, unperturbed. "We do not commonly labor for as long or with as much difficulty as other races do. If an elleth's pains begin before dawn, most often she's delivered by noon."

This time the glances exchanged were awestruck. "Even if it's her firstborn?" Bell gaped.

"Firstborn, second-born, third . . . it makes no difference."

"Snap to it, then, Peony! You heard her! We've got no time for dilly-dallying!" And, with that, Bell took up the broth in a shallow bowl and passed it to Glaewen. "Be a dear and give that to the little mum, would you?" Never mind that the "little mum" was several heads taller than herself.

Shortly thereafter, the broad-faced blonde and thin-faced brunette hustled into the expectant mother's chamber, arms piled with linens, which they set on the bed. Bell considered the task before her and clucked, brow furrowing with concern. "Don't know if them sheets we brought will fit a mattress this size."

"What are you doing?"

The two lady hobbits whirled to see the "little mum" herself standing in the doorway, supported on Glaewen's arm, back from a turn around the common room.

"What's it look like, dearie? We're making up the bed. Don't you fret! We've got plenty of old sheets and towels."

"And you'll be wanting these pillows behind your neck and shoulders and under your back."

Tauriel's eyes widened in alarm. "I want no such thing."

"Well, you can't be giving birth on your good linens, love!"

"Take it from us, duck, they'll be right ruined. You'll have to buy fresh, and they don't come cheap."

"I won't be giving birth on any linens—good ones, old ones, fresh ones, nor any other ones!" Tauriel clutched protective hands over her enlarged belly as if to stop her child from emerging into a world that would subject it to such an indignity as bed linens. "The babe will be born outside, under the open sky."

Glances were exchanged anew. Horrified glances.

"Great Smials!"

"Took's fairy!"

And then, as one: _"Outside?"_

"Yes, that's how Silvan Elves give birth," the Silvan Elf affirmed in a no-nonsense, end-of-discussion tone. Then she closed her eyes and tensed, one hand gripping her abdomen and the other Glaewen's fingers.

The healer helped her into the rocking chair and, when the pain had subsided, handed her a cup of raspberry leaf tea. "Drink it slowly now. By the time you're done, the babe may be ready for us to go out and find its birthing place."

Bell turned to Glaewen, aghast. "You're going to let her birth the babe _outside_? But the both of them will catch their death this time of year!"

"T'ain't sanitary!" Peony seconded.

"It's no less sanitary than birthing the babe in a hot, stuffy room with all the windows shut." Glaewen fought an amused smile as she set about lifting the latches on said windows.

Bell's cowlike brown eyes rounded in distress. "Oh, please, Mistress Glaewen, she mustn't catch cold!"

"She don't _feel_ no cold, 'member?" Peony hissed, elbowing her friend in the ribs.

"I can hear every word you say," the subject of their debate warned, eyes still closed, though she was leaning gratefully into the crisp early morning air that now blew in through the open windows. "Apple and hickory smoke and late autumn leaves," she murmured dreamily. "I want that to be the first scent the babe breathes."

"Tauriel . . . love . . . " Bell tried again more directly. "You can't really mean to bare yourself to the entire neighborhood!"

"Haven't elves got any modesty?"

"The trees of the Woodland provide sufficient cover for even the most modest of elves."

"But, aside from the Party Tree, there's nary a tree anywhere on Hobbiton Hill!"

"And so many a nosy neighbor!"

"That's why, when it's time," the expectant mother said, her preternatural outward calm already recovered since the last contraction, "we'll go to Hobbiton Woods. I've a place picked out on the bank of the Winding Brook."

The horrified glances again.

"Hobbiton Woods?"

"The Winding Brook?"

"But that's half a mile down the hill and 'cross the river!"

"You mean to walk all that way in the midst of your pains?"

"Glaewen says walking hastens the labor. When the time is come—" Another sharp pang cut her off.

Instantly, Glaewen was at her side, squeezing her hand. " _Elo_ , that's a strong one, yes?"

Tauriel just nodded, unable to speak until it had passed.

"That came less than five minutes after the one before it. _Muin nín_ , if you wish to bring forth this child in the birthing place you've chosen, we should start out within the hour."

"Great Smials, birthing a baby in Hobbiton Woods! Never heard the like! Where's she going to put it to bed, in a hollow log under a blanket of dead leaves?" Bell grumbled, or perhaps it was Peony, but both ladies bundled up the oils, tinctures, towels, hot compresses, caudle, and broth and prepared to follow the elves to the woods.

Bilbo sprang up from his chair by the fire as soon as he saw them readying to leave. "What's this? Where're you going?"

"She's determined to bear her youngling in the _woods_ , Cousin," a wide-eyed Peony said significantly as she tied a kerchief round her head.

Bilbo screwed up his face and stared, at a loss for words.

"That's _exactly_ what _I_ said! Now, help yourself to the pasties while we're gone, but do save at least one for each of us for when we get back. There's no telling when _that_ will be!"

Bilbo hoped it wouldn't be before he got a chance to take the pasties round to the neighbors so he could pretend he'd eaten some. However, as it turned out, he never had to worry about the pasties, nor did anyone else, for they all had something much bigger to worry about: The ladyfolk weren't even out the door when the mother-to-be gasped, and a clear fluid pooled at her feet. A second later, she doubled over with a high-pitched cry and would've collapsed had Glaewen not grabbed hold of her under the arms.

 _"Anno dulu enni!"_ the dark-haired elleth called out on instinct. And then, remembering herself: "Help me, please!"

She didn't need to ask twice. The trio of hobbits jumped into action, one taking each of the fallen elleth's legs and the other helping to support her back.

"Please, no . . . we must get to the woods . . . the sky . . . " Tauriel protested, but she was suddenly too weak to offer much resistance as they carried her back to her chamber and stretched her out on the bed, where she lay breathing heavily, biting her lip to keep from moaning.

Glaewen bent over her, voice gentle yet deliberate. "Listen to me, _mellon nín_. The babe is coming more quickly than we anticipated. The time to go out to the woods has passed."

The redhead grasped at her friend's arm with urgency. "But—"

" _But_ you are safe here in your own bed, and we are all with you, Bell and Peony and I. And very soon your little one will be with us, as well!"

* * *

But, as noon came and went, the little one was still not with them.

Bilbo sat in the common room trying and failing to read, smoking his pipeweed, and averting his eyes every time Bell and Peony scurried to and fro carrying red-stained towels. He had no appetite for luncheon, and by the time four o' clock rolled round, the kitchen was an obstacle course of half-empty pots and kettles, dripping compresses, and discarded aprons, too unnavigable to prepare afternoon tea.

Mercifully, there were no hair-raising howls from Tauriel's chamber. But, then, the silence was its own kind of trial. Did elves give birth as surreptitiously as they did everything else, or was something wrong?

Bilbo uttered a mild curse. What was he so worried for? It wasn't his child, nor did he want any part in its upbringing. Plump, rosy-cheeked younglings may have been agreeable to look at, but he'd little patience for their antics. And babies frankly terrified him, screaming and carrying on at you as if it were _your_ fault that they refused to show you plainly what they wanted! Every night, he still reminded the elf that they must find her a place of her own to live in the morning.

The trouble was that every morning he got distracted learning how to cook one of her Silvan dishes or going out to the woods with her so she could point out where to find some Silvan herb. She'd promised to show him how to make a maple syrup next spring, and, well, he rather _liked_ having someone to whom he could read each new chapter of his book with the expectation of honest, intelligent feedback. Not to mention that at tea time it was nice to talk to someone besides himself!

All in all, Tauriel was amiable, hard-working, dependable, quick-thinking, and—yes, confound it—a good _friend_. Like it or not, he'd grown fond of the elf! Why, if it weren't for the mess with the baby, he would've been happy to let her stay perm—

There was a creak as the door to Tauriel's chamber opened, and he heard Bell's anxious voice say, "Can't you help her, love?"

"Yes, what can we do?" That was Peony.

When Glaewen answered, her tone wasn't that of the sweet, cheerful maid he'd gotten to know over the past fortnight but of a steely-eyed master practitioner with centuries of medical training behind her. "Bell, put your sewing needle and pins over the fire. Peony, fetch me the caudle and my jar of gray root paste from the kitchen. Also the bouquet with the athelas—the one with the little white flowers. Make haste!"

As if they had a will of their own, Bilbo's feet propelled him down the hallway, where he hoped to high heavens he wouldn't see his redheaded friend in a dreadful state. But her chamber door was ajar, only a sliver of light snaking out beneath. At that moment, the door opened just wide enough for Glaewen to stick her head through.

"Hold a moment, Bell! Bell?"

But the blonde was already out of earshot, and only Bilbo stood before the elven healer, nervously twisting a handkerchief he'd been using to dab at his brow. "M-may I do something to help?" he stammered before he could stop himself.

She regarded him skeptically for a moment, then held out a small metal box and said, "I need you to go into the kitchen, take the paring knife that's over the fire, and, without letting _anything_ come into contact with the blade, put it in this box, seal the lid, and bring it back to me straight away. Can you do that?"

 _The paring knife._ Bilbo took the little box and swallowed audibly. "I think so." Bell had said the paring knife wouldn't be used till the babe arrived. "Will . . . will the babe be here soon, then?"

Instead of answering the question, Glaewen asked one of her own. "Bilbo, do you know if there's something important to Tauriel that she keeps locked away somewhere amongst her belongings?"

The hobbit bristled. "No, I _wouldn't_ know. It's not as though I go rummaging through her personal effects if that's what you're implying."

"I mean no offense. It's just that she keeps asking for a _key_. Perhaps it might bring her comfort if we could assure her that whatever she's worried about is safe."

Bilbo frowned, trying to remember any mention of valuables she kept locked. "I'm sorry, but she's never said anything about a key. Not to me."

The dark-haired elf nodded, resigned. "The knife then. And quickly! Do _not_ touch the blade."

Bilbo started off but, halfway down the hall, turned back, seeking some reassurance before he went and fetched that particular instrument. "W-will she be all right?"

"The knife, Bilbo."

"Right." He hung his head then in unspoken understanding. "Anything else?"

"Pray to the Valar I do not need to use it."

Then she closed the door.

The laboring elleth writhed on the bed. She didn't cry out, but her breathing was shallow, and her pulse, when the healer lifted her wrist, was weak and rapid. Glaewen squeezed her friend's clammy hand in her own. "Tauriel, thou needst muster all thy strength, _mellon nín_. More now than ever before."

But, for all her centuries of learning, she could only watch helplessly as Tauriel opened unseeing green eyes and whispered, "Please . . . where is . . . _Kí_ . . . ?"

* * *

hröa—body

galikh bakn—good morning

A/N: Up next—we finally get to know if it's a boy or a girl and what this kid's name is! :D


	17. Chapter 17 - A Hope Reborn

A/N: I remain, as always, grateful to my reviewers, followers, and favoriters! Your enthusiasm for this fic is a great motivator! :D To my fellow Americans: Happy Independence Day! :) And to my British readers: Nananana! :P (J/k! We still love you, all these centuries later! ;))

My continued thanks to Moonraykir, who so generously gave of her time this week to answer all my questions about Tolkien's legendarium. (And if anything in this chapter confuses you, don't blame her! She pointed out a potentially confusing element to me, but I left it as it was because I didn't want to reveal too much too soon. ;))

WARNING: The following contains a mildly graphic depiction of childbirth and references to complications in childbirth. Reader discretion is advised.

cat-eye quill: I couldn't answer your review privately because your PM was turned off, but I'm glad you're liking the story! Thanks so much for letting me know! :) Re. Kíli and whether he has a right to be upset that Tauriel didn't tell him about the baby, I think that's an interesting moral question. While I hope her choice not to tell him was understandable, that doesn't necessarily make it morally right. As I wrote the last chapter, I had to ask myself: If a man ends his relationship with a woman (for whatever reason), is it then morally right for her to hide his child from him? I would say no, it's never right to keep a child from their father, not unless there's reason to believe the father might be an actual danger to the child. But Tauriel doesn't think Kíli would be a danger to the baby; she just thinks he's uninterested in parenting a half-elven child. But, she's assuming that because she never actually asked him. Although I sympathize a lot with Tauriel, when she took the choice to be a father out of Kili's hands because she thought she knew what was best, I think it was a lot like what he did when he took the choice to remain in Erebor despite the danger out of _her_ hands because he thought _he_ knew what was best. So, I think they both have reasons to be upset with each other. But I also think time, forgiveness, and real communication (as opposed to the _mis_ communication that's been going on so far) can eventually heal all wounds.

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 17**

 **A Hope Reborn**

* * *

This was what she'd feared most _,_ and now it was happening, she thought blearily: Her body weak and unresponsive, the sight and hearing she relied upon to be sharp and unerring fading in and out. Glaewen's commands and the lady hobbits' nervous clucking barely penetrating the haze of pain.

Someone was urging her to push, but she couldn't . . . she couldn't _move_! She'd told them, hadn't she? That she couldn't move? She raised a hand toward Glaewen, or at least she thought she did. But she felt only the same sheets clenched in her fists.

 _And where was Kíli?_ Where was her love? A father should be here to name his child!

 _Oh, but he was gone!_ He was lost to them. And she remembered the mace that had torn him asunder, that had torn _her_ asunder, _fëa_ from _hröa_ . . . as it seemed to be tearing her asunder again now . . .

 _O Valar!_ She'd been wrong. It wasn't losing control that was the most terrifying thing; it was losing a part of herself.

Yet here she was, terrified but awake and still _alive_ . . . and bringing another, newer, better part of herself into the world . . .

* * *

Bilbo sat in his favorite overstuffed chair holding his head in his hands. The sun had gone down an hour ago, and still no baby.

Now he regretted every time he'd secretly thought of the babe as a "mess" that he wished would just go away. In truth, this was the child of his dearest friend! Yes, in the space of five months, Tauriel _had_ become that to him. If she lost this baby—if _he_ lost _her_ —the world would be an immeasurably darker, bleaker place.

Bilbo wasn't a praying chap, but he found himself muttering verses his mother had taught him long ago when he was little more than a babe himself. He wasn't even sure they qualified as prayers, per se, but whether they were real prayers, incantations, or just rhymes passed down to his mother from her mother and her mother's mother before that, he hoped the intent behind them would be enough.

The _smial_ remained unnervingly quiet. Without anyone to bring him news, he was free to imagine the worst. And he did—over and over, in one gruesome scenario after the next. He was beginning to understand why a father-to-be would sit out on his front stoop and let the whole neighborhood gather round to poke fun at him; it was better than being tormented by his own thoughts.

 _Dammit all!_ Bilbo filled the bowl of his pipe with fresh weed. He was going to go sit on the stoop and smoke. At the very least, Daddy Twofoot was sure to be spying on Bag End from his kitchen window and would come trotting over if no one else did. And the old fussbudget would bring with him half a dozen stories about other Hobbiton Hill dwellers to take Bilbo's mind off what was happening in his own _smial_. Yes, that was just the thing! He'd go outside and—

A shrill cry from down the hall.

 _A . . . a baby's cry!_

An unwitting grin broke over Bilbo's face. _By the Bullroarer's club!_ He never thought he'd be so overjoyed to hear one of the confounded little creatures scream! As he allowed himself to believe what he was finally hearing, he felt something warm and wet on his cheek and hastily swiped at his eyes.

Should he go to her . . . to _them_? But no doubt they wouldn't want an old bloke like himself bursting in on their private moment. Surely someone would be along in a minute to tell him the good news!

The minutes passed, yet no one came. Bilbo began to pace, twisting his handkerchief and occasionally dabbing at his forehead. Good heavens! It couldn't take this long to wash and dress a baby, could it?

Finally, there were footsteps in the hall, and Glaewen appeared in a rumpled apron. She looked quite rumpled herself, for an elf.

"H-h-how is the babe?" the hobbit asked anxiously.

"Small but healthy." She sounded hoarse even though Bilbo hadn't heard any of the screaming or shouting he'd come to associate with childbearing.

"And the mother?"

She sighed. "It was a difficult birth. Most elflings are born quickly and with relative ease, but Tauriel labored for sixteen hours, the longest labor I've attended. There was a time when I thought I might need to"—her voice wavered—"take the babe from the womb myself. Thank the Valar it wasn't so!"

Bilbo's eyes were very round in his ashen face. He remembered the prayers he'd muttered whilst he waited alone and silently sent up one more in thanks.

"But she . . . she lost a great deal of blood. Much more than I'm accustomed to. And I don't know why! There's nothing about the babe in size or even in form to account for it." This last Glaewen uttered on a rising note of distress that was all the more unnerving because elves so seldom showed distress.

"But she'll be all right?"

"I believe so. But she is very weak at present. It will take time for her to recover her strength. Until then, she will need your help, Bilbo. Bell and Peony will doubtless lend a hand, as well, but they've their own families to tend to."

The hobbit nodded, lifted his chin bravely, and said what he suddenly knew to be true. "I'm at her disposal. She can count on me."

Glaewen smiled, though wearily. "Thank you, Bilbo. You're a good friend to her."

At this, he ducked his head, embarrassed. "Oh, she'd do the same for me, I'm sure. That is, if _I'd_ just given birth. Er, I mean, we chaps can't give birth, of course, but if we could, or if I weren't a chap . . . or-or if some misfortune befell me and left me as weak and tired as if I _did_ give birth . . . n-not to say that giving birth is a _misfortune_ , by any means, heavens no . . . but . . . well . . . " Finally he gave up and said, "May I see her now?"

"You may, but not for long. She and the babe need their rest."

He nodded and started down the hallway, then stopped and turned back. "You didn't tell me. Is . . . is it a boy or a girl?"

This time Glaewen's smile was effortless. "I'll let the mother tell you herself."

Bilbo returned the smile and trotted off again. He hadn't given any thought to the child's sex previously. The sad truth of the matter was he hadn't quite thought of it as a real person. But now that the babe was here, now that he'd heard its cry with thanks and relief, he was eager to know if those were the lusty lungs of a little chap or the vocal acrobatics of a young lady. Yes, as it turned out, he was very eager indeed! Musing thus, he pushed the half-open door of Tauriel's chamber, expecting to walk into a tranquil domestic scene, and froze in his tracks, horrified to see anything but.

Tauriel, forest green eyes enormous in her pallid face, flaming hair spilling wild and undone over her nightdress, was clutching a small bundle to her breast with one arm whilst the other struggled to push back the bedcovers even as Bell and Peony fought to hold them down. "Please, let me up! We must go out . . . under the sky!" she cried breathlessly.

"Dearie, please _please_ lie down and try to rest! _Please!_ "

"It's too soon to be on your feet, duck! All this excitement's not good for you nor the babe!"

"I've asked you thrice kindly. Now let . . . me . . . _up_!" And with that, Tauriel gave a great, desperate heave, and the lady hobbits stumbled backward.

"What's happening here?" As Bilbo stood in the doorway, dumbfounded, looking from Tauriel to Peony to Bell and back again, the plaintive cry of a baby filled the silence.

"I don't know what she's on about, Cousin. She's got another one of them fool ideas, I expect."

"She's s'posed to be in bed resting, and she wants to go gallivanting round _outside_!"

"In the dark, no less!"

"With the _baby_!"

The new mother, who had just pushed herself to her feet, swayed dangerously and wrapped her free hand round the bedpost to steady herself. "Bilbo, please," she gasped. "The babe must be named under the open sky. Will you help me take my son outside so I can give him his name? Please!"

Her son?

 _It was a boy!_

Bilbo didn't know what to make of it when his heart leapt within him except that he was terribly happy for his friend. But then the hobbit met the elf's eyes and saw in them both pride and a helplessness he'd never seen there before.

He wanted to help her, truly, but he knew nothing about birthing or when a first-time mum should be up and about, and he didn't like to cross the ladies, who surely knew better than he. He swallowed nervously, and, with a faint moan, Tauriel closed her eyes and sank back onto the bed.

The babe was starting to put up a howl in earnest.

"There we are, dear, just you settle down now."

"And I'll get the pillows for your back. That's right, love."

No. This _wasn't_ right. Not at all! Bilbo felt his indignation rise like one of Gandalf's birthday rockets. He couldn't imagine why Tauriel wanted to take the baby outside at this hour or what that had to do with giving him a name, but clearly it was important to her. And hadn't he just promised that she could count on him, that he'd be at her disposal to help in any way he could? Well, now she was asking him for help, and if he was going to prove himself the friend Glaewen had said he was, then he was bloody well going to keep his promise and help her! And so, he lifted his chin, set his mouth in a firm line, and, trying his best to imitate Thorin's confident, commanding tone, called out, "I'll help."

"Oh, thank you, Cousin. If you could just get that other pillow in the rocking chair and bring it—"

"I'll help you take the babe outside." He squared his shoulders and looked directly at Tauriel so there could be no mistake who he was addressing. Immediately, the tension radiating from her seemed to melt away, and he saw the relief and gratitude in her eyes even as Bell and Peony began to fuss again.

"Now, Bilbo, the little mum can hardly stand! How do you s'pose she'll make it all the way outside?"

"Can't you see she's in no condition to go anywhere? Don't be talking nonsense!"

"The only nonsense I hear is coming from the two of you!"

There was a synchronized gasp from the lady hobbits, who weren't accustomed to this assertive side of their cousin and neighbor, followed by their familiar exchange of horrified glances. This wasn't the meek, retiring Bilbo who'd disappeared from Bag End last year. _This_ Bilbo stood tall, with head up and shoulders back, and didn't stumble or stammer once.

"Yes, it's nonsense, I tell you, when you both stand here carrying on about her _pillows_ and neither of you will lend a hand to help her up! Well, if you won't, then I will." And so resolved, he crossed to the bed, and whilst the lady hobbits gaped, he looped Tauriel's free arm, the one not cradling the baby, about his shoulders.

But before he could pull her up, she stopped him in that way she often did, without a word or a touch but just a look. "You've my eternal thanks, Bilbo," the Wood Elf said then, eyes shining, and he knew she was sincere because eternity was a very real possibility for her kind.

"None needed. You'd do the same for me," he returned with an equally sincere if bashful smile. "Because that's what friends do, isn't it?"

"Yes . . . _friends_."

She said the word in the same reverential tone that one might reserve for an ancestral home, a prize rosebush grown from a seedling, or the memory of tea cakes made by a mother long since passed, and it made his own eyes begin to tingle. A minute more and he'd have to pretend he'd got dust in them, so he gave a brisk nod and said, "Right, go on then. Give me your weight." And when she hesitated: "Don't be afraid; I'm stronger than I look."

Unfortunately, to the hobbit's chagrin, a sedentary year of writing in his study had erased what the previous year had gained him by marching twelve hours a day over rough terrain, and now he was exactly as strong as he looked, which was to say not very strong at all. Beads of perspiration were forming on his forehead by the time he got Tauriel to her feet, and they both wobbled precariously. As much as he wanted to help her get where she needed to go, he wasn't sure willpower alone would be enough. "Well then?" he puffed, fixing the sternest look he could muster on Bell and Peony in turn. "Who else is going to be a _friend_ and help us?" If there was one thing these two prided themselves on it was their sociability, so he hoped they couldn't resist the challenge to prove the value of their friendship.

Sure enough, not a minute had passed before the blonde and the brunette looked at each other and, in silent agreement, moved forward. Although the new mother seemed loathe to part with her son, Peony managed to ease the tiny bundle from her arms, clucking to him all the while, and the sturdy Bell hooked her arm around Tauriel's waist to support her other side.

"Right, then," Bilbo said when they were all in position. "On the count of three. And one, and two, and . . . "

But they hadn't taken two shuffling steps forward when Glaewen swooped in with more of her omnipotent white-flowered weeds. " _Muin nín!_ Why are you out of bed?" she scolded, though she reserved her most accusatory glare for the trio of hobbits who were aiding and abetting her disobedient patient.

"You know why, _mellon_ ," Tauriel replied, meeting the other elleth's eyes fearlessly now that she'd gotten this far.

"No, I do not." Glaewen drew herself up to her full height, at which she was considerably taller than Tauriel, as though that might make the difference in whether the warrior maid took her seriously or not. "There's no sufficient reason for you to exert yourself so in your weakened state."

Even in that weakened state, the redhead was able to muster her temper. "You would call my son insufficient reason? He must be named outside, under the open sky, as you well know!"

At this, the brunette softened her tone, but her stance remained rigid, blocking the open doorway. "Yes, but not now. The night is young, _muin nín_ , and the little one's only just arrived."

"And he _should've_ arrived out under the stars! Glaewen, you _know_ this! The light of the sign under which he was born should've been the first sight he saw! Please, we must take him out now, before any more time passes!"

Tauriel sounded on the verge of tears now, which only strengthened Bilbo's conviction to help her. Jutting out his chin at Glaewen, he said, "We're taking her and the babe outside. You can come with us or not."

The healer sighed through her nose, lips compressed in frustration. Her next words were slow and weighted. "Bilbo, not an hour ago Tauriel nearly lost her life. I barely managed to stop the bleeding in time. If you insist on taking her out to the woods so that the bleeding starts again, her blood will be on _your_ head!"

There was another gasp from the lady hobbits, and even Bilbo's resolve faltered.

"No. My blood will be on my own head," Tauriel said with eerie calm, staring down the other elleth as only the former captain of the King's Guard could. Then she looked at the hobbits on either side of her. "My friends, you've done nothing I haven't asked of you, and I release you from any responsibility should anything go amiss as a result of my choice." Here she looked back up at Glaewen. "But it _is_ my choice, and I choose to take the babe outside now and give him his name."

"We can j-just go out to the back garden, can't we?" Bilbo suggested, his natural tendency to play the peacemaker surfacing once more.

Tauriel blinked at him for a moment, but then her taut expression relaxed. "Yes . . . yes, as long as there's a clear view of the sky."

"A clear view? Oh, it's crystal clear! You know how it is—big, wide, open view. Doesn't get any clearer!"

He felt her hand tighten on his shoulder in a grateful squeeze. "Yes, I think that would do just fine," she agreed on a long exhalation, and it dawned on him that she too had been anxious about walking all the way to the woods in her state. But she'd been willing to do it, despite the risk. Naming a newborn, he realized, must've been pretty serious business for an elf.

"Just to the garden, then. And straight back," Glaewen nodded her approval, albeit with lingering reluctance.

"Yes, thank you, Glaewen." Tauriel offered a small smile like a peace offering, which her friend accepted with a delicate smile of her own. "I'll need a witness. Wilt thou be mine, _mellon_?"

"It would be my honor, _muin_ ," Glaewen said.

* * *

Even with frequent stops to rest, Tauriel was breathing heavily by the time they reached the back garden, Glaewen bearing her weight on one side while Bilbo and Bell together supported her on the other and Peony brought up the rear with the babe.

"Here. This is the place," Tauriel said abruptly, and they halted in the middle of the garden, which had not yet succumbed to frost, the asters, coneflowers, marigolds, and mums poking their heads through the fallen leaves and soldiering on. Above, the overturned bowl of the midnight blue sky dripped with stars, and the Silvan Elf turned her face upward as if to catch them between her slightly parted lips and drink them in. "The babe," she said after a few deep, steadying breaths, and Peony came forward to pass the newborn to her.

For a few moments, the new mother simply gazed upon her little one with a smile so dazzling it outshone the celestial spheres, and Bilbo caught his breath, for in all his travels, he'd not seen an expression on the face of another to rival such pure, boundless elation.

Well, maybe he'd seen an expression on the face of young Kíli to rival it now and then. That one had had a grin to illuminate a whole city under the mountain! Such a damn shame what had happened to him, struck down before his prime . . .

With a shake of his head, Bilbo refocused on the here and now. No, he'd never seen a smile quite like Tauriel's, which wasn't just one of sheer joy, now that he observed it more closely, but also of wonder and tenderness and pride, with something of the protective mother hen in it, too.

And something else. Was it . . . _hope_? Yes . . . yes, by thain, it was! He'd never seen an elf, ancient and jaded as they were, look so unguarded and innocent and . . . _hopeful_.

"Do you see the stars, my little love?" she crooned, then tilted her head back again to look directly overhead. "Born under the sign of the Archer."

Bilbo tipped his head back, too. The smattering of stars above _did_ look quite like an archer with bow drawn and arrow pointing at the rather monstrous constellation due east.

"You will be brave and adventuresome, cheerful and optimistic, and passionate about what you believe. You will see the good in all people, regardless of race or age or status."

"And he'll be skilled with a bow and arrow just like his _nana_ ," Glaewen added.

"Yes . . . like his _nana_ ," Tauriel echoed, though she suddenly sounded rather wistful.

 _Did she not want her son to grow up to be like her?_ Bilbo wondered. She'd lost his father in the Battle of Five and fled the Elvish military to raise him among peaceloving folk. Perhaps she hoped he'd take a path different than hers, one that didn't include bows or arrows.

Regardless, the hobbit was beginning to understand why it meant so much to her to bring the babe outside straight away. His people paid little attention to the heavenly bodies except perhaps as navigational devices when traveling, but to hers, they sang and sparkled with life and apparently held sway over earthly lives, as well. If elves believed the stars could direct the fates of those born beneath them, then it stood to reason that Tauriel would want to identify the ones which would influence her son—apparently those in the constellation at the sky's zenith—and expose him to their light as soon as possible. Bilbo wondered if there was any truth in what they predicted.

But he didn't wonder long because soon he was distracted by a positively captivating sound: _Tauriel was singing!_ Singing to the babe.

On occasion, she could be heard humming round the hobbit-hole, but this was different. This was a real song with lyrics and a harmony that Glaewen interwove with Tauriel's melody as naturally as if they'd rehearsed it every evening for years. Which, knowing elves, maybe they had. Their voices weren't as richly melodious as those of the choirs Bilbo had heard in Rivendell or even in the Woodland during the Feast of Starlight, but they were light and pure and sweet and had that ethereal quality that distinguished the music of the Firstborn from that of all other races. Listening to them was like being lured into a magic trance. But just as it occurred to him that maybe they _were_ casting some enchantment with their singing, it stopped.

Was it just his imagination, or did the stars seem to twinkle more merrily now that the elves had sung to them? Bilbo felt something momentous hanging in the air and looked back and forth between the two, waiting for one of them to reveal what was next.

"The ceremony of Name-giving requires a witness," Tauriel said in a manner that struck him as especially regal, though she was still smiling almost giddily at the babe. "Who will come forward as witness to the naming of this child?"

"I will," four voices said in near unison.

Glaewen glanced at her friend and then said a bit awkwardly, "I don't believe any but another elf has ever stood witness to a Name-giving."

"Does that mean we can't?" asked Bilbo.

"Well, no, not necessarily."

"So then, I'll be a witness," he said, and there were murmurs of assent from Bell and Peony, who were keen to be witnesses, too.

"By tradition, there is only one witness for each parent," Glaewen explained in apology.

Faces fell, and Bell said, "Well, I s'pose you should do it then, dear. After all, you're the only other elf present."

"Nonsense." This time it was Tauriel who spoke, winking at Bell as she did. "I am, after all, a Wood Elf raising my son in Hobbiton. Our lives will not be governed by tradition. You've all welcomed us into your village and into your homes"—here she favored Bilbo in particular with a smile—"and my son and I are proud to call you friends as true as any I knew in my native land. You may all be witnesses."

The hobbits beamed at each other in excitement. "Wh-what do we do?" asked Peony.

"You follow Glaewen."

"Yes, whatever I say, repeat after me."

And so Tauriel began again, reverting to her previous formal tone. "Who will come forward as witness to the naming of this child?"

"I, Ñoliel Duvainien Glaewen will," the raven-haired elleth said solemnly, then nodded to each of the hobbits in turn.

"I, Bilbo Baggins will."

"And I, Bell Gamgee."

"And I, Peony Burrows."

Then Tauriel extended her arms, holding the baby outward from her body, under the light of the open sky. _"San essenen Eruva—"_

She ceased abruptly and, with a warm glance around at her friends, started over in the Common Tongue.

"Then in the name of Eru Ilúvatar, from whom all light flows by the Flame Imperishable and all life by the Music of the Ainur, and in the presence of these witnesses, I declare that I, Telperiën Tauriel, was given this child, a son, on the twenty-fifth day of October in the year 2941 of the Third Age and have brought him forth on this first day of November in the year 2942, also of the Third Age, under the sign of the Archer. I ask thy blessing, O Eru, and the blessings of the Valar, upon this child."

"I also ask thy blessing," Glaewen said, then raised her eyebrows at the trio of hobbits, who, after a moment of confusion over whether to respond individually or together, quickly chorused, "We also ask thy blessing."

"I ask Varda Elentári, Queen of the Stars, to shine thy light upon him and guide him in the ways of the Archer."

"I also ask it," said Glaewen.

"We also ask it."

"And I ask Yavanna Kementári, Giver of Fruits, to grow him up in the fullness of time as thou growest all things."

"I also ask it."

"We also ask it."

Now Tauriel lifted the babe up toward the glittering firmament, but before she could continue, his little fist escaped its swaddling and punched upward as if to seize a star for himself.

"Feisty one, that," Bell said under her breath, suppressing a smile.

"Just like his mum," returned Peony.

"And now, my son," his mother said in a clear, strong voice, "by the grace of Eru Ilúvatar, and in the presence of these witnesses, I give thee thy first name."

Bilbo realized he was holding his breath waiting for it.

"And I say unto thee that thou art _Norithil_!"

"Norithil he is!" cried Glaewen with such exuberance that the hobbits weren't sure it was part of the ceremony until she prompted them to follow her lead.

"Norithil he is!" they repeated as one.

"I dedicate thee, Norithil, to Eru Ilúvatar, that thou mayst ever walk in the light of the Flame Imperishable and that the Music of the Ainur might be made complete in thee."

"So also I dedicate thee, for thou wert created for this purpose," came Glaewen's rejoinder.

"So also we dedicate thee, for thou wert created for this purpose."

"May all thy ways be green and golden, and may the leaves of thy life tree never wither."

"For so from the days before Eä was it meant to be."

The hobbits echoed the last line. And then, as they stood under the great canvas of the night sky, on which was painted the destiny of all the Children of Ilúvatar and now the destiny of this child in particular, the easterly breeze that feathered their hair carrying the scents of wood smoke and autumn leaves, a triumphant little _squeeing_ sound rose from the babe—from Norithil.

His mother lowered him to her breast, arms trembling slightly, and the others surrounded her so she could lean on them. "It's time we went back inside," Glaewen said, and no one disagreed.

But Bilbo had one question. Tauriel had told him that elven parents always gave their children names of special significance to them. "What does Norithil mean?" he asked.

At that moment, the baby's _squeeing_ became an adamant wail.

Bell gave a jolly laugh. "I may not speak Elvish, but I can tell you what he's saying. In any language, that means 'I'm hungry'!"

The others laughed, as well, before they slowly and carefully made their way inside.

* * *

nana—mama

A/N: There are some differences between "real world" contemporary astrology and my Elvish astrological system. In the "real world," birth signs (i.e., sun signs) are determined by the constellation in which the sun appears at the time of birth. The sign of the Archer corresponds with the constellation Sagittarius and rules the period of November 21—December 21. The Archer aims his arrow west and is never visible directly overhead in the Northern Hemisphere. In my Elvish system, birth signs are determined by the constellation that is directly overhead at the time of birth. The constellation that they call the Archer probably moves according to season and hour of the night. He aims his arrow east and can sometimes be visible directly overhead in Middle-earth.

Although Tauriel's mother tongue is Sindarin, I decided that the Name-giving was a formal high ceremony in existence for thousands and thousands of years and would therefore traditionally be recited in Quenya. Tauriel begins this recitation in Quenya before switching to Westron so the hobbits can understand.

Up next—we find out the meaning of Norithil, among other things!


	18. Chapter 18 - A Firemoon's Blessing

A/N: Many, many thanks to all who took the time to leave reviews last week, and I apologize that I got behind on answering them! :O I'll reply to everyone as soon as I get this update posted. If I'm not mistaken, a few new followers and/or favoriters have joined us, too, since last week. Hi, guys! Thanks for reading along! :)

My thanks again to Moonraykir, as well, for her eye for detail, her ear for language, and her sound advice on this fic! :)

Guest 7/4: Thank you! I'm thrilled to hear you're enjoying this fic! :) This is the chapter where we find out what Norithil looks like, so read on for the answer. ;) Thank you for reviewing!

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 18**

 **A Firemoon's Blessing**

* * *

"Norithil . . . " Glaewen carefully handed the freshly swaddled babe back to his mother, who she was much mollified to see propped up comfortably in bed. Her smile was puzzled. "The 'fire moon'?"

"Yes. He was conceived under a blood eclipse. The dwarves call it a firemoon," Tauriel explained to her friend, though her eyes were only for the babe as she beamed down at him.

"Ah! A good omen for a babe so conceived."

 _"There's an old proverb about this moon. They say it lights a fire in the blood—for death or for life."_

So Kíli had said, and sure enough, that same night the moon had lit a fire for death in the dragon's blood. But for the two young lovers on the lakeshore, it had ignited a passion that sparked the flame of life. As Kíli was not here to give the babe his father-name, which was supposed to reflect something of his parents' history, Tauriel hoped she had chosen well. He _looked_ like a Norithil, she thought happily as she watched him drift off now that he'd been fed. (And what a hearty appetite he had already! She might have to eat more tea cakes just to make enough milk for him, which wasn't at all an unpleasant prospect.)

She stroked one petal-soft pink cheek, and the babe turned his head toward her finger in his sleep. Due to the decline of elves in the Third Age, Tauriel had seen maybe a dozen elflings in the course of her life, including her own brother and sister, and only a handful of newborns. She wondered if all of them were so perfect at birth or just this one. There'd been times in the past—when she'd lost her family, when she'd lost Kíli—that she'd thought her heart might break from the empty, aching sadness. But now she thought her heart might break because it was full to bursting with joy. She'd loved Norithil from the moment she knew he existed, which was many moons before she knew his name or sex or anything else about him. But now that she held him in her arms, she also felt her love as if it were a solid, tangible thing with weight and dimension, and as light as the babe was, her love for him was so heavy that she almost feared she couldn't bear it.

 _How did parents live with this feeling?_ she wondered. How did they go about their business as if there were anything in the world worth thinking about other than the well-being of their children? Was this how her own parents had felt about her and her siblings? Was it how Glaewen's parents felt about _her_? How Bell and Peony felt about _their_ children?

How Thranduil felt about Legolas, which threw a whole new light on his fierce commitment to isolate and protect the Woodland?

How Dís felt about Kíli? Tauriel shuddered at the idea of losing Norithil in the way Dís had thought she'd lost her younger child—and had indeed lost the elder—and tightened her arms around her own son. Kíli's mother had verbally eviscerated her for her role in his death, but now Tauriel was amazed the dwarven princess hadn't tried to literally eviscerate her, too. Why, there was no telling what she herself might say or do to someone she believed responsible for hurting Norithil!

Oh, yes, she would have to be strong to carry this love lest it crush her or, worse, crush her son. For the last thing she wanted to do was restrict him or smother him with her love.

"Mercy, it's late! Now we've set the kitchen straight, we'd best be go— There now, what's this?"

Tauriel's head came up, her eyes glistening with the beginnings of tears. She hadn't even noticed that Glaewen had gone out and Bell had come in.

The blonde made a sympathetic face as soon as she saw Tauriel's red eyes and nose. "Oh! There there, dear!" Bell cooed. "'Tis a bit overwhelming, isn't it? All these new feelings at once . . . "

"I thought . . . love only hurt when you lost someone," Tauriel fumbled as her eyes brimmed over.

"Oh, no, dear. To love is to hurt, with or without the loss." She sat down on the edge of the bed.

"But . . . how do you bear this love?"

"You don't. You give it away to him every day." She patted the new mother's hand. "Just keep giving the love away."

And despite the fact that Tauriel was close to six hundred years Bell's senior, the elf maid marveled at how wise the lady hobbit was.

* * *

At long last, after Bell and Peony had departed for their own homes, leaving behind a spotless kitchen with no trace of the day's events, Bilbo tiptoed down the hall toward Tauriel's chamber. He could hear the dulcet tones of elven singing well before he poked his head round the door, one hand covering his eyes. "Is everyone decent?"

The singing stopped. "Quite."

"Are you accepting visitors then?"

"Certainly," Tauriel said with a smile.

Bilbo ambled into the room and found her sitting up in bed in her dressing gown, hair tied back in a single loose braid, the infant swaddled on her lap. "What was that you were singing?"

"A Silvan lullaby. My mother used to sing it to me."

"Oh. It's very pretty. Is it part of the same song you were singing outside?"

"At the start of the Name-giving? No. That is a song in Quenya, the ancient language of the Noldor. They say it is part of the Music with which the Ainur sang the world into being. According to our tradition, Manwë taught it to the Eldar when they dwelt in the Blessed Realm. When they left, they brought it with them to Middle-earth. What we were singing is the only remnant still known to us, and we sing it at the birth of our children, as the Ainur sang it at the birth of the world."

Bilbo was awed. "What a beautiful tradition! I should very much like to see a translation of this song. Is any available?"

"Yes, there is a full translation in Rivendell. And I can translate some of it for you, though it won't be exact."

"I should like that very much."

Tauriel shifted slightly, tilting the bundle in her arms toward Bilbo. "Would you like to see him? He's sleeping just now."

The hobbit approached the bed uncertainly and perched on its edge, close enough to see the baby but not _too_ close lest he unleash a great arc of spit-up as babies were purported to do. Tauriel untucked the blanket to give her host a better view.

For all that the babe was small, he was well-formed and not in the least scrawny. His cheeks were round and plump, and they even dimpled as his bow-shaped mouth worked in his sleep. His ears, a bit large for his head perhaps, tapered to fine points, which wasn't unexpected for an elfling but was still a curiosity to a hobbit. More unexpected was his shock of raven black hair, dark brows, and full lashes, which fanned across his cheeks in stark contrast with his porcelain skin.

Well, Tauriel had said that gingers were rare among her kind, that most Silvan Elves were dark-complexioned, so that probably explained the hair. But such a thick head of it on a newborn! Bilbo wondered if elflings commonly began life with so much hair, but then he remembered that most of the elves he'd seen, including Tauriel, had very long hair indeed, so perhaps they started growing it from the first day.

"Handsome little fellow, isn't he?" Bilbo smiled.

" _I_ think so, but of course I _am_ his mother." Her eyes flicked from Bilbo to the baby and back again. "Would you like to hold him?"

"Me?" Panic gripped the hobbit in its hot, sweaty vice. "Oh, no no no, I couldn't! I've never held a baby before, I wouldn't know how! And I-I wouldn't want to h-h-hurt him!"

"I can show you how. It isn't hard. You just fold your arm like this . . . "

"Oh, good heavens! Tauriel! No-no, I-I don't think—"

"And support his head with your hand like that . . . "

"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear—"

 _"There."_

 _"Oh!"_ Somehow she had shifted the mound of blankets to him, and now he was . . . he was . . . "I'm h-holding a b-baby!"

"Yes." She sounded amused. "So you are."

Just then, the baby's eyes fluttered open.

Bilbo froze and squinched his own eyes shut in preparation for the little fellow to start screaming at the top of his lungs at the sight of an unfamiliar face.

But when the babe uttered not a peep, the hobbit squinted open first one eye, then the other, and found himself peering into a pair of large, luminous orbs much like Tauriel's, perhaps a shade darker—mountain pine where hers were broadleaf glen. "His eyes! They're so . . . _green_!"

The babe's mother chuckled. "Does that surprise you?"

"Well, yes! I mean, we hobbits are born with blue eyes. They don't darken till a youngling's maybe four, six months old. Sometimes even older, I think—can't say I've that much experience with babies. But I've never seen a newborn with eyes of any other color."

"Hm. We undergo no such change. Elves are born with eyes whatever color they will always be."

The little one's gaze was intent. Penetrating even. "I feel as if he can see right through me!" Bilbo exclaimed. Another trait elves were born with apparently. Thank heavens Tauriel reserved her penetrating stare for special occasions, but Lord Elrond . . . and that Lady Galadriel . . . ! For almost a full minute, the elfling studied the hobbit, and then, quite suddenly, he grinned.

"He— He's smiling! That's a smile!" Bilbo could hardly contain his amazement.

"He liked what he saw in you," Tauriel agreed.

"But . . . but he's not even a day old yet!"

"Do hobbits not smile from the outset either?"

"Not usually, I don't think. Elves do?"

"It's not unheard of. My younger sister smiled a few hours after she was born."

"You've a sister?" She'd never mentioned her family before.

"In the Halls of Mandos, yes."

His face fell. "Oh. I'm sorry."

She nodded but didn't elaborate, so Bilbo turned his attention back to the infant, who made a burbling sound at him.

 _Norithil._

"What did you say his name means?"

"He is named for what we elves call a blood eclipse. It is considered a sign of good fortune for those conceived under it."

Bilbo blushed at the word "conceived," something he preferred to know nothing about. As for a "blood eclipse," that sounded rather gory in his opinion, but there was no understanding elves and all their signs and wonders. He gave a mental shrug about the whole matter.

Then, a sudden flash of inspiration: "We could call him Nori for short! I know a dwarf named Nori, actually, one of Thorin's company. You might remember him for his hair! Worn sort of like a star round his face? Beard and mustaches divided into three triple-braided . . . " He trailed off when he recognized the lifted chin and sharp, wide-eyed stare that meant Tauriel was not pleased. Dammit, he should've known better! Of course an elf wouldn't want to call her elfling by a Dwarvish name given the centuries of bad blood between the races. "Er, sorry, I'm—um—terribly sorry! I didn't mean to suggest—"

"Elves don't use—what do you call them, nicknames?"

"No no, of course not. No nicknames. None whatsoever. Full names only." He cleared his throat nervously, but the warrior maid seemed satisfied at that, thank heavens. Norithil made a questioning sound, and when Bilbo looked down, the babe smiled again, dimpling his cheeks.

The confirmed bachelor couldn't help smiling back even if he _wasn't_ a baby sort of chap, and for the first time, it occurred to him that this little fellow might grow into a youngling to whom he could read the tales of his adventures, divulge his favorite fishing holes on the Winding Brook, or make up some excuse to demonstrate the best route by which to climb the Party Tree. It also occurred to him that he might rather enjoy doing all these things, that they might be like a series of small adventures now that his big adventuring days were behind him. And furthermore—

Norithil interrupted his train of thought with a yawn fit to swallow the Brandywine River, a sentiment Bilbo related to Tauriel, who chuckled as she took her son back into her arms.

"I dare say he _could_ swallow that much. At this rate, I've no idea how I'll keep up with his feedings!" the new mother bemoaned.

"Eat more, I suppose," said the hobbit, who wouldn't be averse to joining her in that mission, either.

"Oh, I could eat a whole lemon drizzle cake! Or . . . no . . . " Her emerald eyes lit up. "A black forest cake! You remember, the Silvan cake that I made for tea a moon or so ago? The one created by the baker with the odd sense of humor when the Greenwood turned dark."

Bilbo remembered. He also remembered making a promise to take care of her and Norithil whilst she recovered. If only he'd known that would involve baking cakes at midnight! He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't suppose you want me to bake this cake right now, do you?"

"Oh, Bilbo!" Her eyes shone even brighter with longing. "Would you? Would you really?"

He heaved a sigh, then with forced cheeriness, said, "Why not?" Feeling a bit stiff in the joints after a long, tense day that seemed to have no end, he gingerly got down from the high bed Aldo Sawcutter had made to order for its tall elven occupant. "You and Norithil get some rest. I'm off to the kitchen."

"Bilbo, wait."

He turned back and waited.

"I owe you an eternal debt of gratitude."

"Oh, come now, it's only a cake."

"No, it isn't. I'm well aware that I showed up on your doorstep an uninvited guest and that, despite your express dislike of infants, you graciously allowed me to stay, for which I am forever in your debt. But now that Norithil's arrived, we _shall_ rest so that, in the morning, we can find a place for ourselves to live."

Bilbo stared at the proud Wood Elf with her round, serious eyes in her peaked face. Then he coughed. Then he spluttered.

"Bilbo? Is something the matter?"

And then he began to laugh. He laughed until he was doubled over and red as a pepper.

"Something amuses you?" She shook her head in consternation. "What? What is it?"

Then he clasped her hand, and she began to laugh too, which finally brought color back to her cheeks.

"What?" she repeated, laughing and clinging to his hand. "What is it?"

He shook his head, trying to catch enough breath for words. "Oh, Tauriel," he said at last when he could, "you've found the place."

* * *

The morning found Tauriel nursing a ravenous Norithil, though her own appetite was largely sated by the black forest cake she'd devoured in the middle of the night.

"I wish I did not have to leave you so soon, _mellon_."

The redhead tore her eyes away from her son to see Glaewen looking on anxiously. "I wish you didn't, either, but I understand. You were only given three moons' leave to visit your father in Imladris. If you stay here any longer, it may raise suspicions, and your master healer will not be pleased. I won't have him taking disciplinary action against you on account of me."

"I could stay half a fortnight more and still return in time, I think."

"No. There's no telling what delays you may face on the road. You should leave now." In truth, the new mother was nervous about caring for the babe on her own without an elven healer nearby, but she knew it would be selfish to ask her friend to postpone her journey home. When Glaewen sighed, Tauriel said, "You've quite literally gone miles out of your way for Norithil and me. We owe you our lives. I would not hold you here a day longer."

The brunette nodded then, relenting, but brightened shortly thereafter. "I've a welcoming gift for the babe."

"Oh, Glaewen, you needn't have! Everything you've done for us was gift enough."

"Please, I wanted to. Just a moment. It's in my chamber."

By the time Tauriel had finished feeding Norithil, Glaewen was back with the gift. The former captain gasped. It was a child-size Elvish bow, of excellent construction, she saw, as she ran her fingers over it.

"It is the work of Master Cúon." The elven archer raised her brows in recognition at the name of the highly respected bowyer. "I thought you'd want to teach Norithil to follow in your footsteps."

" _Muin nín_ , it is beautiful! There are no words sufficient to thank you!"

Glaewen leaned forward, and the two elf maids embraced.

"Look in the top drawer of the bedstand," Tauriel said when her friend drew back. "What you will find there is our gift to you, a small measure of our appreciation."

The healer looked puzzled when she withdrew a leather pouch with smaller packets inside it. "Seeds?" Then her eyes went wide. "Sea and stars, these medicinal herbs are very rare! They aren't found at all in the East!"

"No. I was told by the Noldo apothecary in Bree that they grow only in Lindon and are scarce even there. But he assured me they _will_ grow in the Woodland, albeit with a short bloom season, if you pot them in loam and sand."

"I shall. Oh, thank you ever so much! Any healer would be highly fortunate to have them!"

"It was the least I could do, and the seeds will be light and easy to carry on the return trip."

"Oh, how I shall miss thee, my friend!"

"And I thee! I fear it will be many turns of the stars before we meet again."

This prompted another round of embracing, which ended when Norithil stirred and Glaewen couldn't resist tickling his ears, as elves did with their young, and pinching his chubby cheek. "I'll miss this one, too! Look at that head of hair!" Though they both continued to smile, the look the two elves shared was heavy with meaning; elven infants were born as bald as men in old age. Finally, Glaewen sobered and said, "If you have need of me again, do not hesitate to send for me."

The blood in the redhead's veins suddenly ran a few degrees colder. As much as she would miss her friend the healer, she hoped there would be no need to send for her. But the babe was so uncommonly small . . . "Norithil, he . . . he _is_ strong and healthy despite his size, is he not?"

"Yes. He is. But should there be an illness or injury . . . "

 _Should he be mortal_ was what she was saying, Tauriel realized. It was a frightening prospect she'd not dwelt on before. She could only pray the Valar had seen fit to grant her son an immortal _fëa_. But it might be a long time—years—before she knew if they had. And the knowledge might come in one unpredictable, terrifying moment, as death blows came to mortals. She pressed Norithil more tightly to her just thinking of it. "I wish you weren't so far away, _mellon_!" she cried, her anxiety betraying itself behind her stoic elven facade.

"As do I. But even if I were closer, there are so many questions about this child that no one can answer, not I nor anyone else. I pray that all his ways will be green and golden and that the leaves of his life tree will never wither."

"I know, Glaewen. And thank you. I pray the same."

Norithil cooed at this, and when his mother looked into the forest green eyes that sparkled with life, it was impossible to accept that their light might ever be extinguished.

* * *

"I must take my leave now, Bilbo."

"So soon?" The hobbit peered up at Glaewen over the breakfast tea he was taking in his study. It was time for second breakfast, actually, but he'd overslept after the chaos and exertion of last night.

"I fear so."

He hoped that meant Tauriel and the little fellow were all right and asked her how they fared.

"They are both well, but I am leaving an herbal tea that I want Tauriel to drink morning and evening for the next two fortnights and a powder to mix into her meals. Will you see that she takes them? They will help her regain her strength."

"Yes, yes, of course."

"Thank you for allowing me to stay with you for Tauriel's sake. You've been a gracious host to me."

"No need for thanks. We were more than happy to have you." His eyes clouded then. "If you hadn't been here to help, I don't think we would've—that is, I know _I_ wouldn't—well, you know."

Glaewen inclined her head in understanding of the outcome Bilbo was loathe to verbalize. "The truth is, Bilbo, before yesterday, I didn't believe I possessed the skill to be of help in such a long and difficult labor. Had I foreseen the complications that arose, I would've insisted we procure the services of a master healer. But, last night I learned more than I did whilst attending dozens of previous births. And what I learned was not merely about birthing but also about myself." She lifted her chin a bit and smiled. "When I am home, I believe I shall sit for my mastery test."

Bilbo remembered the moment of crisis in which the apprentice healer's sweet, amiable lilt had shifted to the cool, commanding tone of an authority, and he gave her a considering smile. It seemed no matter how old a body got, one was always capable of surprising oneself, and last night they'd all learned they were capable of more than they'd thought. "Then I wish you success on your test and in your future practice."

After she thanked him, he said, "Have you looked in the pantry? Please, take anything you like with you when you go. It's a long journey; I should know."

"It is, and thank you, I shall."

"You've got someone to accompany you, I hope?"

"I can make it back to Bree on my own, and I'll wait there for the next elven convoy to Rivendell. One should depart soon this time of year, before the snows come."

The hobbit nodded.

"Farewell then, Bilbo. May all your ways be green and golden."

He smiled fondly. "Good-bye, Glaewen. I wish you a safe trip."

"Oh!" Halfway out the door, she turned back and rummaged in her satchel. "I almost forgot that Tauriel asked me to give this back to her. Would you pass it on to her for me? She and the babe are resting now; I don't want to disturb them." She made a funny face as she laid what she was holding on Bilbo's desk. "I can't imagine what she wants with an old rag. It's so full of holes, I can't think it would even be good for cleaning anymore! But, there it is."

Bilbo stared for a long moment at his grandmother's red doily, then said simply, "Thank you for returning it." A few minutes later, when Glaewen left, he was still contemplating it but had made no move to return it to its former place under the basket on the serving table.

It seemed today was all about fresh starts: a new baby, a new permanent resident, a new master healer, and a new . . . uncle? Perhaps, he thought, there came a time when even Bag End could use a change in decor.

* * *

Once outside, Glaewen saddled her horse, secured her bags, and departed Hobbiton at a brisk trot toward Bree. The sky was fair, the winds were calm and westerly, and she anticipated making good time. She sang a song as she went, a spirited Elvish lay about a hero and his lady and a grand adventure, and didn't notice the particularly sizable thrush that flew after her.

* * *

A/N: Up next—it's back to Erebor, where Kíli is about to uncover a secret!


	19. Chapter 19 - A Traitor Revealed

A/N: I continue to be grateful to everyone who left me kind and encouraging words after the last update! If you followed or favorited after the last chapter, thank you for that, too! :D

Special thanks to Moonraykir, who patiently answered my questions about certain passages over . . . and over . . . and over again and helped make sure this chapter wouldn't be a disaster without my knowing it. :O

Guest 7/11 #1: I'm glad you liked Bilbo's first encounter with baby Norithil! My goal is always to write scenes that you can see clearly, so it makes me smile to know I was able to achieve that this time. :) Norithil has (and will continue to have) a combination of elven and dwarven features, so for hobbits, who've probably never seen an elfling *or* a dwarfling, it could be hard to tell the difference. We'll have to wait and see whether Norithil grows a beard at all and, if so, when. That's really sweet of you to say this fic is one of your favorites! I look forward to continuing it, and I hope you'll continue to enjoy reading. Thanks for your review! :)

Guest 7/11 #2: I think the thrush reveal will happen in the next chapter. If not, then it will happen in the chapter after that. So you don't have too long to wait! ;) Regarding whether Kili has a right to be upset that Tauriel didn't tell him about the baby, please see my A/N on Chap. 17 for more on that subject. As for Dis, she certainly owes Tauriel a huge apology for the way she treated her at the funeral, and Kili will definitely have words for his mother when he finds out how she behaved. On the other hand, I don't think we can blame Dis or the other dwarves too much for advising Kili not to contact Tauriel in the beginning. Gandalf told them to keep the "miracle" quiet, and they were concerned a message about it might be intercepted. (That is not to say they would've approved Kili's choice of an elven mate, either, but even if they had, they would still have strongly discouraged him from revealing himself to anyone outside Erebor.) Thanks for your review! :)

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 19**

 **A Traitor Revealed  
**

* * *

 _April, T.A. 2943—Erebor_

"Dori, Nori, Bofur, come in."

Kíli looked up from the advanced Khuzdul lessons he was studying, rose from his massive stone desk, and bestowed a weary but welcoming grin on the three Longbeards who stood in the doorway of his study. When they came forward, he seized each by the shoulders in turn, and there was head-knocking and backslapping all around. Months had passed since he'd been able to sit down and talk for more than five minutes with anyone but a member of the Royal Council. He missed those of the Company he hardly saw these days, and he missed the way he felt in their presence—less like a king and more like just Kíli.

However, there was another purpose to this visit. The young monarch didn't want to become isolated from the people and relied on these informal gatherings to keep his finger on the pulse of the city. Dori understood the mood of the merchants, Bofur the talk of the tradespeople, and Nori had his ear to the ground wherever he went, which was often enough into the shadier corners of Erebor.

"Shall we be off to The Dragon's Lair?" The popular tavern was on a lower level and frequented by laborers of various stripes. "First _and_ second rounds are on me."

The trio exchanged wary glances. "Not there, sire," said Nori. "I wouldn't recommend it."

Kíli snorted and looked from one to the next and back to Nori with a confounded smile. "Since when? They've got your favorite pickled kippers there."

"Nay," Bofur jumped in. "The place has changed. They don't serve none o' the same dishes no more, kitchen's crawlin' with parasites, and an elf could get old waitin' for a table."

"Aw, what's the matter, Bofur? Find another bee in your ale?" Kíli teased, remembering how the toymaker was out the door of The Prancing Pony and halfway back to Ered Luin before he realized one of the fuzzy little insects wasn't trying to mow him down. He never would set foot in that establishment again.

"Aye, that's right, a bee. Giant one! Stinger big as that short-sword o' Bilbo's!" Bofur exclaimed a bit too readily for belief.

"Right." Kíli sobered. "Now we've had our fun, what's really going on? Tell me truly." His friend and distant cousins exchanged glances again. "Come on, if I can't depend on you three, on whom can I depend?"

Finally Nori spoke. "There's much unrest among the people, m'lord."

And Dori. "It mightn't be wise to risk someone overhearing our conversation. You know I'd give my right arm to protect the king, but I'd rather not have to give it today, if you catch my meaning."

"That bad?" Kíli said softly, sadly, already knowing the answer before the other three nodded. "The Hammer and Anvil then," he sighed.

* * *

Unlike The Dragon's Lair, which was abuzz at all hours as miners came and went from their shifts, The Hammer and Anvil, situated in the public square of Erebor's uppermost level in order to serve the elite and their guests exclusively, was at a lull this time in the afternoon. Nevertheless, Kíli and his three comrades hunched in a deserted corner booth, voices low, and interspersed their conversation with Iglishmek sign language, which couldn't be overheard.

"The merchants were expectin' a bigger market for their wares in Erebor." Dori paused to sip his chamomile tea, the only one at the table who'd foregone ale because it was "too early in the day to dull my wits." His meaty fingers made an odd contrast with the dainty handle of the teacup. "They remember the old days—or heard tell of them from their fathers—when demand was so high, they'd barely the time to restock their shelves ere they were sold clean out agin. Anyone with the will and a decent head for business could prosper, and the merchants of Erebor were the wealthiest in all the Seven Kingdoms. But now, without formal agreements in place to facilitate trade with men or elves, their goods sit on the shelf, and they question why they left the Iron Hills or the Blue Mountains, where sales might've been modest but were at least predictable."

"Aye, and when the merchants don't sell, we crafters don't get our cut," Bofur chimed in. "I've got a shop full o' toys and no orders, and it ain't no better for anyone else. Difference is I got me share o' the treasure, so I won't go broke, but other folks don't got that luxury."

"Beggin' your pardon for sayin' so, m'lord," said Nori, whose shifty-eyed restlessness didn't seem out of place for once as his gaze continuously swept the tavern for eavesdroppers, "but there's a lotta anger directed toward the leadership o' this city, even from some o' those who lived in Thorin's Halls. They wanna know where's the better life they were promised."

"Khazad-dûm wasn't built in a day. If dwarves are known for their long memories, why don't they remember that?" Kíli said flatly even though he felt sick at heart listening to these reports; he'd finally learned not to display every emotion that flitted across his internal landscape.

"Dwarves have long mem'ries when it comes to grudges and short mem'ries for everything else," said the oldest dwarf among them. "They're quick to complain but slow to offer the benefit of the doubt."

"And time passes mighty slow when you're livin' in conditions like some o' these fam'lies are," his younger brother agreed.

Bofur nodded vigorously. "'Tis true. The tinker in the shop next to mine, he's got a wife and five bairns in a house with only one bedchamber and leaking pipes in every room. Says half the windows is broke besides."

"Some lived under worse circumstances in Ered Luin," Kíli countered, recalling his own modest childhood living quarters, which were often in need of repairs.

"And some didn't. But they all hoped for better here in Erebor, and they left behind most o' their worldly possessions and traveled through enemy territ'ries, riskin' their lives, just as we did, to get it. Can't blame 'em for bein' disappointed an' frustrated."

"No, I can't," the king conceded. Nori was right. They all were. And Kíli knew the widespread dissatisfaction was due to the budget cuts he'd instated six months ago to finance Defense. He hated to think of the city suffering in poverty and longed for the day when Erebor would ascend to glory as it had in his great-grandfather's time. But for now he could see no other route to security for his beleaguered kingdom. "Do the people understand why we live in austerity? Do they realize—" He stopped short and switched to signing. _"Do they realize the danger we're all in if we **don't** prioritize defense?"_

"Aye, but the merchants believe we can fund the military and still prosper if we encourage trade with the kingdoms of men and elves, who need what we've got to sell," Dori explained.

This wasn't the first time Kíli had heard or answered this argument; Glóin harped on it at every turn. His signs lost their briskness as his fingers moved more rapidly, one shape flowing into the next. _"Do they know I-cannot-treat-with-other-rulers to make these trade agreements? That Gandalf expressly-advised-my-isolation so as not to expose the bloody 'miracle' and endanger-the-kingdom?"_

 _"To be honest, sire, I think the crafters understand little of politics and the laborers even less."_ Bofur looked ashamed, as if he were personally responsible for their ignorance. _"They know the Reawakening's all hush-hush and that they canna tell a soul outside the mountain about it on pain o' death, but they don't rightly know why."_

"Most of 'em know it's got somethin' to do with a wizard and what he said, but many also think wizards can't be trusted," Nori added.

"Now, the merchants . . . they understand the position you're in well enough, but . . . " Dori, too, shifted to Iglishmek. _"To some of them, that means the kingdom would be better off under Dáin, who isn't compelled to hide away from the world."_ When the young ruler sighed and leaned his forehead against his hand in dejection, the white-haired dwarf looked stricken as well. "Of course, that's not saying any of us here agrees with them. We know this continuing isolation wasn't your choice, nor is it your fault."

"Have ya given any more thought to what ya told us Master Frithr said . . . ?" Bofur ventured.

Nori picked up the toymaker's incomplete question. "About takin' a few o' these other sovereigns into your confidence so we can treat with 'em?"

Kíli shook his head miserably. "Don't want to chance it. And _'Amad_ would kill me herself if I did."

"Even if it was Bard?"

"Or Lord Elrond?"

"People talk, and even walls have ears. If the wrong person found out about me and resolved to attack Erebor because of it . . . " Kíli shook his head again as if he couldn't begin to contemplate the idea. "I could not live with myself if even one more life was lost on my account."

"S'alright, lad," Dori soothed in his paternal manner, dropping the formality of title. "You're doing the best you can to make diamonds outta the coal you were given, and we're damn proud of you for it, aren't we?"

There were adamant nods all around, and Bofur grabbed the younger dwarrow's hand in a show of solidarity. "Ye're King under the Mountain now, Kíli. The son of Durin. We'll always stand behind ya, come what may."

Kíli squeezed his friend's hand in return and nodded back at his kin in acknowledgement. Then he set his jaw, determined not to waste any more time feeling sorry for himself when others were counting on him. His gestures cut right to the chase. _"Do they plot against me? Or anyone else in my house—my mother, Balin, Dwalin?"_

 _"Not in my hearing. But there's talk of riots if the people don't see change."_

Riots . . . ? Now Kíli's jaw went slack. _"Is Dáin the change they want to see?"_

Dori's response was slow, reluctant. _"He is for some. Especially for those hotheaded types who are cause for the greatest concern."_

So far, the greatest concern had been another assassination attempt. But, to Kíli's thinking, if those so-called hotheaded types started rioting, the rampant violence, which had the potential to hurt many, would be far worse than a focused attack that would target only him. Thankfully, due to the additional monetary support he'd channeled to it, the military was likely strong enough by now to quell an internal uprising. In fact, he was confident that it was and communicated this to his companions. But, still, the last thing he wanted to see in Erebor was its army turning on the people so that neighbor fought neighbor and brother fought brother. It was disheartening in the extreme that morale was low enough to incite this kind of bloodshed.

Would it be better, Kíli wondered, to admit failure and cede the kingdom to Dáin at last? Mahal knew he'd doubted his own competence to govern often enough during the first year of his reign!

The current King under the Mountain pondered what the Lord of the Iron Hills might do differently in his place. However, the ginger-bearded warrior had enthusiastically advocated for the same defense policy Kíli was now following, and while Dáin may have been free to treat with other kingdoms, he wanted nothing to do with them, favoring self-sufficiency and isolationism.

No, it was unlikely much would change under Dáin Ironfoot regardless of what his rabid supporters imagined, and at this stage, abdication would probably accomplish little more than an increase in civil unrest.

But _riots . . ._! Kíli shuddered inwardly at the prospect. By all that was holy in Arda, let there not be riots!

* * *

By the time the four Company members had wished each other well and parted ways until their next meeting, Kíli didn't think he could get back into the right mind-set to translate more Second-Age Khuzdul decrees. The Royal Council was scheduled to open session in an hour, so perhaps he'd go straight to the Council Chamber instead of returning to his study. It would be amusing to see the looks on his councilors' faces when they arrived to find their once chronically tardy king waiting patiently for them! So when he rounded a corner and the Council Chamber came into view, Kíli was amazed to find that someone had beaten him there.

And that someone was chiseling something into the door.

For a dwarf, Kíli was swift and light on his feet. Before the vandal knew what was upon him, his tools fell with a clatter, and he was reeling from the impact of a punch to the face. He squinted up at his apprehender, one arm raised to ward off another blow, gingerly fingering a blood-smeared lip under a flaming beard soft and silky as a dam's.

The king's eyes rounded in astonishment. _"You!"_ He seized Young Thorin by the collar, hauled him up, and spun him round to face his dirty work on the chamber door. "What is the meaning of this?"

But the meaning became clear enough when Kíli read what he'd already guessed was etched there: _Mebelkhags-um—_

No need for Dáin's son to complete the word to see that it was intended to be _elf-lover_.

Great Mahal! _Dáin's son!_

Kíli might not have called himself and Young Thorin friends, but they were kin; the blood of Dáin I flowed through both their veins. They'd eaten at the same table, drunk from the same passed cup, laughed together at the same jokes (well, as often as the prudish, dam-bearded lad laughed at anything). In a gesture of goodwill, Kíli had named Thorin Secretary to the Royal Council and made him a court scribe alongside Ori, whom he'd known far longer and better. And meanwhile the little orc shit had repaid him by harassing him for months on end, vandalizing, slandering, threatening, and hatching Mahal knew what schemes to destroy him right under his nose! _Durin's beard_ , to think he'd felt _guilty_ for giving orders to his same-age third cousin when the shameless traitor was breaking some of the most time-honored laws of the Khazad!

Kíli's brows drew together like thunderbolts over a face dark as a stormcloud. Rage that previously had no direction found its focal point now, and the rising pressure of it felt like a boiling geyser inside him, ready to erupt. "Why?" he demanded. When the trembling lad didn't reply, Kíli swung him back around so they were face to face and shook him. _"Answer me!"_

The rough movement seemed to shake the mask of subservience right off Young Thorin's face, and this time he hissed, "Because it's true! The she-elf put a spell on you when she raised you from the dead!"

" _What?_ Have you gone bloody insane?"

"Asked the stark raving madman," Thorin retorted, prompting Kíli to slam him up against the door he'd defiled just moments ago.

The ginger groaned as the back of his head hit stone, but the harsh chuckle that followed was taunting. "Oh, yes, I was there at your funeral. I saw you wake raving about her like a lunatic, and I sat in this very chamber and listened to you beg the Council to fetch her back to Erebor. My father said you all but admitted you were in love with her in private session! And now you do the bidding of that _kanbûna_ and her Elvenking. What other explanation could there be for why Erebor languishes so under your rule?"

Kíli narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip on his antagonist's collar until he heard the other wheeze painfully. When he spoke, his voice was low and deceptively soft, vibrating with the checked power of a wild animal under tight rein. "Her _name_ , though you are not worthy to speak it, is _Tauriel_ , and it is thanks to her that you do not serve Bolg, son of Azog, under this mountain. She risked her life to convince her Elvenking and his son, the Mirkwood prince, to stay in the fray when the battle was at its most critical, and it was the prince who slew Bolg after I had fallen."

"My father would never have debased himself to rely on a _Mebelkhags_ as savior!" Thorin choked out.

Kíli gave a hard, mirthless laugh. "Your father was overcome by orcs! His forces only rallied when Uncle's company joined the fight, and it was Uncle, Master Dwalin, Fíli, and I, along with Tauriel and Prince Legolas, who broke the enemy's stronghold on Ravenhill. I don't suppose your father told you _that_!"

The traitor's eyes widened, but his shock was quickly replaced with the hard glint of rage, and he spat at Kíli, spraying the blood that trickled into his mouth from his broken nose and split lip."How dare you malign the good name of Lord Dáin Ironfoot! He is seven times the ruler you could ever be!"

"So he _didn't_ tell you," Kíli surmised grimly. "I suppose he was too busy plotting with you to kill me and claim Erebor for himself. Well, now his own days are numbered." In truth, it hurt to say it. Despite his flaws, Dáin was Uncle's second cousin, and he'd stood by Kíli's own side for well over a year, supporting him when he was at his weakest.

For the first time, the lad blanched, fear naked on his face, and he shook his head adamantly. "No, _'Adad_ is not involved, I swear it. Please, Cousin, don't hurt him! He knows nothing of what I've done to help him. "

A dubious Kíli snorted at this invocation of their familial tie. "And what exactly _have_ you done, _Cousin_? Did you cut the elevator in the Northwest Mines with me in it?"

"Of course not. I haven't the know-how to do that. You really thought I did?"

In that instant, Kíli knew he did not. The lily-livered scribe, soft and pasty as a dam, wasn't mechanically inclined and had never done a lick of hard labor in his life.

"It was Bran," Thorin volunteered. "The blaster you ran through with your sword in the mine tunnels."

"You mean the one who blew seven innocent miners to bits and forever maimed more than twice that number?" Kíli growled. He could still hear the echo of agonized screams and smell the stench of burning flesh.

"The explosive wasn't my idea. None of it was. I never told anyone to do anything."

"No, you just told them you'd seen me leave my chambers headed for the Northwest Mines at odd hours. Or that I liked to take a tumbler of mulled cider in my study after dinner. Or that I was scheduled to tour the mines with Masters Bombur and Balin. And then you told them I was an elf-lover and left the rest up to them, wasn't that it?"

"They must've seen the truth for themselves and agreed."

"The _truth_?" Kíli repeated, incredulous. "The _truth_ , whether you will admit to it or not, is that you have incited others to the attempted murder of your king, which resulted in the deaths of eight blameless individuals! You conspired to create a year and a half of terror in these halls to try to compel me to part with"—his voice cracked with emotion"—with the only lass I've ever loved because she was not safe here!"

"Yes, I tried. But she is still with you, isn't she? Controlling your mind! She recalled you from the Halls of Waiting by witchcraft, and if I'd another year and a half, I would see you return there!"

In a burst of fury, Kíli hoisted the villain into the air with one hand. "I could have you executed for high treason based on that threat alone and your father along with you!" he thundered.

Young Thorin kicked and squirmed, hands clutching at his throat. "Do what you want with me," he managed to squeeze out, "but, I beg you, don't punish my _'adad_! He's completely ignorant of my activities and would despise me for what I've done for his sake. He is loyal to you, Mahal help him."

The lad was pathetic, though it didn't make Kíli feel sorry for him after the atrocities he'd instigated in his devious way. However, Kíli _was_ beginning to feel sorry for Dáin, who'd spawned this vile, wretched scoundrel for an heir.

And then, in the sudden way a storm breaks, a shaft of sunlight piercing the clouds even before the rain has stopped, the King of Erebor understood what he had to do.

Slowly, he lowered the ashen ginger to his feet, though he didn't release the hold on his collar. "You are right," Kíli said, voice firm and unyielding as steel, "your _'adad_ would certainly despise you. You are a disgrace to the memory of my uncle, his cousin, for whom he named you. It is because your _'adad_ loved my uncle that I know he would do nothing intentionally to harm me."

It was also, he realized, because Dáin had worked tirelessly to advise his young cousin on governing Erebor and defending against revolt, both internal and external. It was because he'd insisted, along with Dís and Balin, that Kíli take a personal guard with him everywhere. (Ironically, Kíli had dismissed that guard when he went to lunch with the unofficial guard of Dori, Nori, and Bofur. Otherwise, the four dutiful dwarrow would've shackled this orc-fucking traitor and dragged him to a prison cell by now.) It was because if the Ironfoot had wished to usurp the throne, it would've been simpler to stand back and let Kíli fail whilst leaving him unprotected against attack.

Kíli may not have agreed with all of his older relative's methods, but he had to acknowledge Dáin's efforts on his behalf.

On behalf of his uncle's memory.

"And it is out of respect for him that I will let you live." For as physically tough as the tattooed warrior lord was, Kíli knew it would crush him to watch his firstborn son hang. "But"—and this was indisputable, so the King under the Mountain spoke forcefully and deliberately—"you and he and the rest of your family will leave Erebor before the sun rises on another day, and you will take with you all who call for Dáin as king. If you are not gone by sunrise, I will not spare you nor anyone in your house from the executioner's sword." He paused to let this sink in. "Do I make myself clear?"

"As the River Running, _Your Majesty_. You will never see me or my family again," Young Thorin sneered.

"See that I don't."

"Gladly. But know this: All who oppose you will not leave with us. Some will stay, and they will demand my father's return, this time to the throne. Mark my words: One day _you_ will be gone, and _I_ will rule this mountain."

"You are unfit to bear my uncle's name, much less his crown! Get out of my sight before I change my mind and run you through with the sword myself!" Kíli snarled and cast the villain aside in contempt.

The smaller dwarf stumbled backward, and then, with a last look of pure hatred, took off in the opposite direction, one hand pressed to his bleeding lip.

As soon as Young Thorin was out of sight, it was as though a ton of bedrock had been lifted from Kíli's shoulders. But even as he breathed in relief, a ton of iron ore settled in its place, for now he would have to face Dáin.

* * *

kanbûna—lady-dog, bitch

Mebelkhags—elf (impolite form)

A/N: Up next—Kíli + Dáin + Dís + Balin = Dwarven Drama!

And now for some good news and some bad news: The bad news is that outside of the winter holidays (Thanksgiving—New Year's), summer is my busiest time of year, so there's a good chance I won't be able to update on a weekly basis again until the fall. The good news is that we're really getting into the thick of the plot now, and the next several updates are going to feature big reveals and confrontations much like this one did. So hopefully they're worth waiting a little longer for! Since I don't know how often I'll be able to update for the rest of the summer, I'd encourage you to follow this fic if you want to know when new chapters are ready.


	20. Chapter 20 - A King's Judgment

A/N: It's good to be back! :D I sure have missed this fic and all you guys who've been following along! I hope some of you are still here after the extended vacation I unintentionally took while working on a project that had {gasp} a _deadline_! My heartfelt thanks to everyone who followed, favorited, and/or reviewed since the last update, and I look forward to diving back into full Middle-earth immersion, starting tonight. :)

Special thanks go out to Moonraykir for helping me figure out how to say what I really want to say and for patiently pointing out my anachronisms. (I'll trade you a "choose" for a "drawing board"! ;) )

Guest 7/23: Thanks for your review! :) This is the chapter where we find out what happens when Kili has to confront Dain about Thorin's betrayal, so read on! I hope you enjoy the way it plays out. :) As for Gandalf, Saruman sent him off on a wild goose chase for Glorfindel, so it will be a few more chapters before he returns. By then, something very big will have happened in Erebor that will change how most of the dwarves view Kili, and that event will be coming up in Chap. 22.

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 20**

 **A King's Judgment**

* * *

"Blasphemy! Where's the beardless bastard who would dare slander the King under the Mountain an' deface his chambers? Just let me get me hands on 'im, an' I'll knock his head into the next age!" Dáin swore as he stared at the slur chiseled into the door of the Council Chamber, fists clenched and face almost as red as his hair. His Eastern accent was thicker than ever.

Kíli had canceled today's meeting of the Royal Council and called for a private session with Dáin, Dís, and Balin, informing them that a perpetrator had been caught. He shared a meaningful look with his mother and chief advisor before he put a steadying hand on the Ironfoot's shoulder. "Lord Dáin, won't you come in and sit down? We've much to discuss."

"There ain't nothin' ta discuss. If ye've caught the traitor red-handed, he deserves the sword. After all the trouble he's caused, I'll deliver the blow meself if necess'ry!"

"Cousin . . . " Kíli squeezed the other's shoulder and leveled his gaze at him. In the periphery of his vision, he caught Balin's nod. It was for these moments that Balin had trained him in diplomacy, but all the training in Arda couldn't help him say what must be said now. He swallowed once, then plunged onward. "Have you by chance seen Thorin this afternoon?"

Bushy ginger brows drew together in confusion. "Aye. Seems he got in a bit of a scrap earlier. Wouldn't talk about it. Not like the lad. Whydaya ask?"

"Because that scrap happened here where we stand. It concerned the damage to the door."

Dáin's eyes brightened, and his chest inflated with pride. "Are ye sayin' 'twas me son who arrested the vandal?"

"No." Kíli couldn't help wincing. "I'm saying it was your son who _was_ the vandal." He braced himself for a blow from the hot-tempered warrior, not to mention a catalog of ear-splitting curses.

But these didn't come. Instead, after an astonished glare, the old puffed-up lord seemed to deflate before their very eyes. When he opened his mouth, it was as if the pilot light of his fury had been extinguished in one breath. His gaze fell and did not rise to meet theirs again. After an awkward silence, he nodded at the Council Chamber and, in a toneless voice, said, "P'rhaps we'd better go inside."

* * *

"A threat against the King under the Mountain is punishable by execution whether or not an attempt at assassination is carried out," Balin explained sadly. "And, in this case, Thorin _did_ conspire to assassinate King Kíli by inciting others to violence. Then, when their plans went awry and innocent dwarves perished, he concealed the culprits' identities, making himself an accessory to their crimes. Your Majesty, you are well within your rights to order his death by the noose or the sword."

Kíli glanced at Dáin, the only one of the four who'd chosen to sit. Hunched in his chair, the Lord of the Iron Hills looked to be the smallest in the room though he was more broadly and heavily built than any of them. His gaze was unfocused, and the fist he rested on the table trembled.

The King under the Mountain said, "It is also my right to reduce the sentence to banishment, is it not?"

"It is. And I understand well why you would wish to show the lad mercy." Balin, too, cast a sympathetic glance toward Dáin. "But you must also consider how to best serve justice."

Dáin worked his jaw, grinding his teeth, and everyone paused to let him speak, but he did not.

"Believe me, I've considered it," Kíli sighed. Both in the lightning-flash moment when the question had answered itself there in the hallway with Young Thorin suspended above him and for several hours thereafter while he examined it alone from every angle. "And I'd be opposed to mere banishment had not the actual murderers already forfeited their lives in exchange for those they took."

"So they have," Balin allowed, inclining his snowy head. "But if you let Thorin go free now as opposed to, say, imprisoning him here in Erebor, he may return to cause trouble in future."

"Indeed he promised as much, did he not?" Dís turned from the window, wringing her hands.

"He did," Kíli nodded but kept his voice calm and reassuring, as she and Balin had taught him. "But according to Master Dwalin, in another six months, our military will regain its full strength. That will make an attack on the kingdom vastly more difficult should Thorin be foolish enough to return."

"He will never return. Not whilst I'm alive. I'll see to it."

All eyes turned to Dáin. This was the first time he'd spoken since hearing the charges against his son, and his voice quaked, reminding Kíli of fractured, unstable ground.

"I didn't raise the lad to be a bloody beardless traitor! A thousand lashes is what he deserves!" Dáin slammed his fist on the table in punctuation. "If not far more." These last words were mumbled, and his nose twitched involuntarily in an effort to keep his eyes from brimming over. The proud noble, unaccustomed to shame, was clearly a warrior at war with himself, torn between his love for his eldest son and his allegiance to the cherished values of his people.

Out of respect, Kíli held his silence for a moment, then said, "Thorin is your son and, at seventy-four years of age, will not attain full majority until another year has passed. I release him into your custody to deal with as you see fit. But if I order him whipped or . . . far more, as you put it . . . then I make a martyr of him, and that I will not do. Neither will I imprison him in this mountain so that his supporters and collaborators can rally round him."

"That is wisely said, sire." Balin's tone was properly circumspect, but Kíli could sense the warmth of approval beneath it.

Just as he sensed relief and gratitude beneath Dáin's bluster when that fellow swore on Durin's grave that he'd make Young Thorin pay for his crimes. "As Mahal is me witness, by the time I'm through with the lad, he'll shudder at the mere mention of 'Erebor'!"

The King of Erebor nodded slowly, impartially, for he'd already decided Thorin's penalty was not his to assign. "As I said, provided he never sets foot in this city again, you may determine the nature of his punishment yourself." Then he straightened and squared his shoulders in preparation to deliver the one judgment that was absolutely essential to his plan to restore peace. "I trust, however, that you understand why your whole family and all who would live under your rule must depart for your own kingdom at once."

A gasp from Dís. " _Inùdoy_ , please, be reasonable!" She'd been standing apart from the others, but now she gathered her skirts and hastened forward, elbowing Balin aside in her urgency. "Why punish the father for the sins of his son?" Kíli opened his mouth to respond, but before he could get a word in edgewise, she pressed on. "Lord Dáin has done nothing wrong! On the contrary, he's done his utmost to help you rebuild the kingdom and rule it wisely. You didn't grow up alongside him as your uncle and I did, but we've known one another from dwarflings, and I can assure you that underneath those fearsome tattoos is a loyal, generous, good-hearted—"

"Right, that's enough o' that now. I dun need no female goin' ta battle fer me," Dáin grumbled, his ears suspiciously crimson.

The princess whirled to face the warlord, eyes snapping and arms akimbo. "I'll go to battle for whomever I please, sir! Now you be quiet whilst I'm fighting this one, and that is an order."

The suspicious flush spread to Dáin's neck, and his glower was at its most intimidating. But, in the end, he didn't dare flout the order of a dwarrowdam, much less a royal one, so he sat in silence, fuming whilst the lady fought for him.

" _Galikh._ Now, as I was saying before I was so _rudely interrupted_ "—here she matched the Ironfoot's glower with one of her own—"after all Lord Dáin has done for us, we owe it to him to show him our appreciation, not the door out of Erebor."

"I _do_ appreciate him. I thank him heartily for his generous service both to me personally and to this kingdom." Kíli nodded toward his elder cousin, who returned the nod, though still glowering. "This isn't about punishing him, _'Amad_. It's about protecting the people."

"And how do you propose to protect them by sending away the most experienced warrior in this mountain, whom General Gunnir is also sure to follow back to the Iron Hills, is he not, Master Balin?"

"It is a distinct possibility, my lady."

Kíli noted that Balin didn't look especially distressed at that possibility and tried not to smirk about it. "If the general goes, we will invite the _other_ most experienced warrior in this mountain to be chief of defense in his stead. You remember a dwarf called Master Dwalin, don't you, _'Amad_? Single-handedly felled a whole regiment of orcs at Moria? Only one of us to survive Ravenhill without the aid of 'miracles'?" Kíli's eyes twinkled in his attempt to lighten the mood, but the attempt fell flat.

"I've never doubted Dwalin's capability. But think, _inùdoyê._ Half the military hails from the Iron Hills! When Lord Dáin and General Gunnir leave, will they not wish to leave with them?"

Kíli sighed deeply. In truth, he hadn't considered that disturbing outcome before, but the Ereborian army had trained directly under Dwalin for a year and a half now, and the second son of Fundin was a highly regarded master-at-arms, tough but popular with the troops. Kíli had to hope that would count for something as the soldiers decided whether to stay or go, and he told his mother so. "And should so many really choose to leave, we will increase funding to the military for new recruits," he concluded, shooting a warning glance at Balin, who seemed on the verge of inserting some caution about the budget. They would iron out the financial details later, but they needed to act immediately to protect Erebor.

"Should they choose to leave?" Dís echoed, her gracefully arched brows reshaping themselves into thunderbolts. "You would let them _choose_?"

Kíli frowned, puzzled. "That's the idea, yes."

"You cannot be serious! Any citizen of Erebor who abandons the King under the Mountain under the command of another is a deserter, a traitor to the throne! You would let these deserters simply walk out?"

Finally understanding, Kíli broke into a grin. "Yes, _'Amad_ , I would. And gladly!" He put his hands on her shoulders so he could look directly into the brown almond eyes that were so like his own but harder and cooler except in these rare moments when they sparked like hot coals. "Do you not see? Thorin's crimes were committed in his father's name, and there's a large faction of dwarves who will never be content until they live under his leadership. So . . . we let them live under his leadership. _In the Iron Hills._ "

"What's good for the people is good for the king." All attention shifted to Balin, who was no longer trying to hide the pride in his smile as he regarded the young sovereign he'd mentored for a year and a half. "His Majesty is correct, my lady. And his strategy is also quite clever. These dissenters are a poison to our efforts to restore the kingdom. They don't work with us but against us. And your son has correctly discerned the only way to be rid of them without starting a civil war. They are too numerous to remove by force, but by giving them what they want, they will remove themselves."

"And if they don't? Thorin threatened that some of the dissenters would remain, did he not?"

"Then that is a risk ye must take." There was a rumbling sigh from across the room as Dáin heaved himself to his feet. "I'd take the same risk for the sake o' me own kingdom. Surely ye must see they are right, Dís." Virtually no one addressed the princess without her title these days, and something about the familiarity of it made her resistance falter. Sensing his advantage, Dáin strode forward. "What Erebor loses in subjects it'll gain in true supporters once we're gone." He turned to Kíli. "It's a damn good plan ye've come up with, a plan born of thinkin' like a true king, and if me an' my fam'ly must leave ta see it accomplished, then it's our honor to do it."

The old lord's disappointment was easy to read in his dull eyes and grim mouth and not unjustifiable given the time, effort, and resources he'd invested in the Reclamation. Nevertheless, as Kíli had predicted, Dáin wasn't about to argue the sentence when he and his son were escaping with their lives.

"Name the day and we'll be gone."

"Tomorrow at sunrise."

"So be it."

Balin cleared his throat. "Then by proclamation of Kíli, King of Erebor, on this twenty-third day of April in the year two thousand nine hundred and forty-three of the Third Age, you, Dáin II, called the Ironfoot, Lord of the Iron Hills, shall hereafter be banished along with—"

" _Itiddinî!_ Wait!" It was Dís again. "My son, I implore you, this is not Durin's way!"

"By the hammer and anvil, madam, let it be!" a frustrated Dáin exclaimed.

"Oh, you shush!" And then to Kíli: "Please, _inùdoyê_ , if you've ever listened to your mother, I beg you to listen to me now."

Kíli stared in surprise. It wasn't like the redheaded dam to humble herself and plead in this manner. He knew she admired Dáin and felt a kinship with her second cousin, but sentiment seldom prevented her from acting in the best interests of the kingdom. Still, she was his mother, and he owed her the respect of listening when she spoke.

"Our young rulers have always looked to those of the previous generation to advise them in the first years of their reign. Dáin himself ruled under the counsel of your great-grandfather Thrór for five years when he assumed leadership of the Iron Hills. Isn't that so, m'lord? No, never mind, don't speak. You're supposed to keep quiet, and we all know it's so."

Ah. So that was it, the real reason Dís was so alarmed. Kíli's mother was as transparent to her son as a freshly cut diamond: she thought he was incompetent to rule without Dáin looking over his shoulder. Strangely enough, her attitude didn't offend him, perhaps because not so long ago he would've agreed with it. Instead, he only felt sad that she had so little faith in him. "You think me a poor governor, _'Amad_?" he said quietly.

"No, I think you young and inexperienced," she replied with her typical bluntness.

"So I am." Kíli's smile was lopsided, self-deprecating. "But isn't that why I've you and Balin to guide me?" His eyes flicked toward his chief advisor, who gave an encouraging nod.

Dís pursed her lips and conceded the point with a light shrug of a slender shoulder. Her whole frame was slender, really. Delicate. When Kíli was a dwarfling, his mother's overpowering presence had made her seem physically larger than she was.

Funny how some time away from home battling creatures three times her size could shrink her down to scale! And, in reality, though she was an opinionated little spitfire, Dís had never carried the weight of a kingdom solely on her shoulders, not even in Thorin's Halls after Uncle had embarked on the quest. No, she'd packed up and followed him a month or so later, enjoying a smooth, safe road to Erebor freshly cleared by the Company.

The princess liked structure and certainty, a hierarchy above and below her. She preferred more dwarrow below than above her, no doubt, but even one or two above could bear the brunt of it when the best laid plans came crashing down, thrown off balance by the unpredictable. Maybe, Kíli realized, his mother, too, could be afraid to fail at her responsibilities. It was compassion that prompted him to take her hands then, for though she was strong, he saw that her fear of failure was her weakness and caused her to build walls of tradition around the people and places she cared about when she might've been better off tearing some of those walls down. He couldn't soothe her fear, of course—she'd be too proud to even admit to it—but perhaps he could build her confidence until she had no need of fear.

"'Tis true that none of us has governed a kingdom alone before, _'Amad_ , but between you, me, and Master Balin, we've got four hundred fifty years' experience living with kings, learning from kings, and doing everything those kings were too busy or tired or just couldn't be bloody well arsed to do, which Mahal knows is more than two good dwarven lifetimes and longer than Dáin here's even been alive. If we've not learned enough to do a halfway decent impression of the job by now, then we might as well leave it all to Morgoth, pack it up for the Blue Mountains, and let Durin come back as a coal miner's son!"

Dís bit her lower lip but couldn't stifle a chuckle in spite of her son's irreverence, and Balin, too, was having a coughing fit that sounded very much like smothered laughter.

"I, however, think we can do more than a halfway decent impression. In fact, I know we can." Kíli still wore his mischievous smile, but now his tone was serious. "You and Balin were born in the Lonely Mountain. It knows you, and you know it, inside and out. And as for me, I may be learning still, but I think it counts for something that I haven't brought it crashing down on our heads yet."

"Oh, Kíli," his mother sighed and raised a hand to cup his cheek. "I don't doubt your ability to lead our people; I doubt my own ability to teach you."

"Dragon shite!" His patience at an end, Dáin trundled over to his trio of cousins. "Ye taught a fine son, and ye'll teach a fine king. He's a credit to us all." _Which is more'n I can say fer me own son,_ was the unspoken lament that moistened his eyes. He nudged Dís aside and grasped Kíli by the shoulders.

"Cousin, I thank you. You've taught me much, too," Kíli said solemnly. "I will continue on the course you've laid for this city."

"Ye must chart yer own course now, Yer Highness." It was the first time the Lord of the Iron Hills had addressed his young cousin by his formal title, and Kíli unexpectedly found his own eyes tingling at the acknowledgement. "Today ye've proven that ye're ready for it. I can see now that ye've got a good heart and a good head, and I'm sorry if I doubted it. I'm sure ye'll make yer uncle proud."

The renowned warrior leaned in and pressed his head to his sire's in the Dwarvish symbol of goodwill and affection, and the young king returned the pressure. When Dáin pulled him in for an embrace, Kíli thumped his elder's back a few extra times for good measure.

* * *

Kíli flattened a palm against the glass pane, a motion that might have been interpreted as either reaching out or fending off, depending on one's perspective. Whatever he watched seemed to absorb his full attention, for his chief advisor was able to enter the throne room and approach without being heard.

"The decision you made yesterday showed excellent forethought," Balin said.

"Forethought," Kíli repeated. He turned from the window with a hint of his mischievous smile. "A wise king does nothing without it, isn't that what you always say?" Then he looked back out the window, and his smile became rueful. "How wise can I be if half the mountain is leaving?"

Balin joined him at the window. From the throne room's lofty vantage point, the folk who swarmed the courtyard, packing their barrels and baggage, their carts and ponies, were mere specks of color outlined in the morning sunlight.

"How wise would you be if you forced them to stay?" The elderly dwarf put a hand on Kíli's upper arm. "Do not be discouraged, Your Majesty. In the end, it's always true that what's good for the people is good for the king. And that's not just some old adage to justify suffering for the sake of duty. With the title of King under the Mountain comes immeasurable power to bring others happiness or pain. But by and by, I think you'll find the more power you give others to choose their own happiness, the happier you yourself will be. It can be quite a burden, you know, trying to _make_ others happy."

Kíli shook his head. "Perhaps one day I'll see it your way, but I don't know what happiness to find in Master Dwalin's report that a third of the army has left. We'll have to divert even more funds away from other departments to compensate for our losses." He sighed in frustration and pushed off from the windowsill. "Just when it seemed we were making progress, and now we're back to the bloody drawing board!"

Erebor's safety compromised again. Its economic recovery delayed again.

 _His reunion with Tauriel postponed, it seemed, indefinitely._

Kíli knew he was destined, as all dwarves were, to wait out the passing of the ages in the Halls of Mandos one day. But would Mahal never tire of making him wait here in Middle-earth, as well?

Tell me, Master Balin," he said, "what is there to be happy for in all this waiting?"

For once, Balin had no answers.

* * *

The traveler consulted his map while his horse drank from the river just downstream of the Last Bridge. To the west, the watchtower of Weathertop reared up in the sky, marking the halfway point from Imladris to the Shire. By his estimation, if the weather held, another fortnight would see him in Bree, where he would let his horse rest for a day before pushing on to Hobbiton.

 _Hobbiton!_

Of all the places in Arda she could've gone, he'd never expected the thrush would find her there! If anything, when the bird took so long to return, he'd feared the worst—that she'd faded without a trace—and had blamed himself for leaving her to mourn the loss of her professional position, social standing, and that _naug_ she'd fancied, alone and friendless. On inquiry, her commanding officer and fellow soldiers had admitted that she was looking thin and peaked for several moons before she fled the Woodland without warning or explanation.

So when the thrush at last reported her alive and well in Hobbiton, the news had brought both overwhelming relief and confusion as to what business she had with halflings. It was only once he passed through Imladris and heard that she'd been seen there in Mithrandir's company that it made sense: the wizard was especially fond of halflings and must've taken her to stay with his particular favorite, Bilbo Something-or-other.

He couldn't blame her for wanting to escape her thankless existence in the Mirkwood. He could only imagine how bored and frustrated she'd been after her demotion to rank-and-file soldier, a grievous waste of her talent and training. He would never have made her suffer as Thranduil had for the sake of a petty grudge! But, then, he wasn't Thranduil and never would be. That was why he would never go back, and if she knew what was good for her, she wouldn't, either.

There was another reason he would never go back, of course, he thought as he led his satisfied horse up the riverbank: Everything there reminded him of her or, more accurately, of the utter fool he'd been when he was with her almost every day for six hundred years, failing to recognize how he felt about her for the first three hundred and failing to communicate it to her for the three hundred after that.

And now it was too late.

Or was it?

If she hadn't already faded, perhaps her feelings for the _naug_ had amounted to nothing more than a passing fancy after all. In which case, maybe the door he'd thought shut was yet ajar! The hope of it buoyed his heart like to float him across the river!

Legolas tucked the map away in his saddlebag, swung astride his mount, and urged the horse into a canter with the vision of a redheaded Silvan beauty the only star he needed to navigate by.

* * *

itiddinî—wait (imperative)

naug—dwarf (impolite form)

A/N: Next up—we're back in Hobbiton and, well, you guys can guess what's next, right? ;)


	21. Chapter 21 - A Shocking Confession

A/N: Hi, all! So, first off, all my thanks to the many readers who've reviewed, followed, or favorited since my last update! You guys are so supportive and encouraging and really keep my spirits up! That's especially true at times like this when I've been dealing with unexpected health issues that cause a lot of pain and actually landed me in the emergency room recently. (Yes, that's why I haven't been updating regularly.) For awhile, I thought about putting this fic on a "medical leave," and that still may become necessary at some point, but for now I think it would be better to just write as often as I can. I've been pain-free for the last four days, so hopefully that will continue as long as possible! If any of you are into sending prayers or positive energy and want to send some my way, that's always appreciated. I feel lucky to have so many sweet and caring readers!

Also, thanks, as ever, to Moonraykir for her keen editorial eye!

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 21**

 **A Shocking Confession**

* * *

 _May, T.A. 2943—Hobbiton Woods_

The little creature had a voice twice its size and wasn't afraid to use it. As it basked on the rocky bank of the Winding Brook, its throat swelled with pride, emitting its distinctive croaking song. _"Cenich i cabor?"_ Tauriel said in Sindarin, then repeated in Common, "See the frog?" She always spoke her native tongue to Norithil, keenly aware that he would hear it from no one else.

The babe silently regarded the frog with wide, serious eyes of almost the same shade of green as the animal's skin. Though he didn't speak, when his mother mimicked the frog's croak, he effortlessly repeated the sound: _C_ _wrrrrrr!_ Moments later, the frog returned the greeting, and Norithil let out a jubilant cry, eyes crinkling as he slapped the surface of the water with glee. Tauriel joined in his laughter—it was impossible not to—and swirled him about through the shimmering brook while he paddled and kicked.

If it hadn't been for that ready laugh upon every new discovery, it might've troubled her that in the six moons since his birth Norithil had yet to speak a word. Most elflings could pronounce a handful of terms by now, her younger sister even more by her recollection. Sometimes Tauriel feared her son was slow to learn because she was his only source of Sindarin or because hearing two languages confused him, and then she wondered if she should've tried to raise him amongst elves after all.

But then she watched him watch her sort feathers for fletching and reach to put a goose feather in the goose pile and a dove feather in the dove pile or listened to him imitate the call of any woodland creature with the accuracy of a grown ellon, and she felt the coil of worry loosen within her. Norithil was a quick study and could match any same-age elfling in both intensity and duration of attention. The only difference was that elflings seldom vocalized their joy in learning, whereas Norithil frequently announced his mastery of a new task to the world at large with whooping, shrieking, or a hearty belly laugh. So even if her son didn't yet talk, Tauriel knew his mind was developing, and if she couldn't converse with him until his third year, the age at which Glaewen had said many dwarflings learned to speak, then she would just have to be patient.

But, oh, it was difficult! So difficult to wait and wonder, not only about Norithil's language acquisition but about everything that made him different from a typical elfling. For instance, before bathing, Tauriel had nursed the babe, who still wasn't interested in any of the softer contents of her lunch even though an elfling would've been almost fully weaned by now. According to Glaewen, dwarflings weren't commonly weaned until they began talking, but if Tauriel had to wait that long to wean her half-dwarven child, she wasn't sure her milk would last! Also, there was the fact that Norithil was vigorous but still small for his age, and she couldn't tell if that was a natural result of his father's heritage or of malnourishment since he wasn't yet eating fruits or vegetables. But then that worry, too, paled in comparison to the anxiety that gripped her every time one of the young hobbits came down with a fever, for she didn't yet know if her son was susceptible to the illnesses of mortals. Tauriel had never thought of herself as a worrier, preferring to take preemptive action before worry became necessary, but now that there was no action to take, her mind was busier than ever and not always to the benefit of her or the babe.

Freshly washed and clean, Tauriel waded out of the brook with Norithil, dried him, and set him in his basket while she dried herself and replaced her tunic and leggings. She didn't bother with the skirt these days, especially now that the weather was so warm. She was more mobile without it and shrugged off the strange looks she got from the hobbits for wearing "men's trousers."

After wrapping Norithil in his own small tunic of the same evergreen as his eyes, Tauriel hung his basket over a sturdy tree branch so the spring breeze could rock him to sleep and climbed up beside him. She stretched out on her stomach, winding her legs round the branch for balance, and pillowed her head on her hands. Then she sang softly, an old Silvan lullaby about the living forest that watched over each child, and as she sang, gazed into the babe's eyes until, with a satisfied sigh, they fluttered closed, and the lashes that curled like ravens' wings lay still against his fair cheeks. By then, his mother, too, was struggling to keep her eyes open.

Before Norithil was born, Tauriel had not napped since she was an elfling and then only because her _nana_ required it. She'd always been among the spriest and liveliest of the spry and lively Nandor, and even when she was heavy with her own child, she'd been full of hopeful energy. In fact, she'd felt more robust and vital then than she ever had before. But since the birth, she tired more easily and often felt the need to rest along with her little one. Glaewen had warned her that caring for an infant could be exhausting, especially in the early months, but Norithil wasn't a fussy or demanding babe, and Tauriel found only joy, not hardship, in meeting his simple needs. Yet here she was, in the middle of the afternoon, limbs sluggish and eyelids heavy!

Well, she thought, perhaps she must stop resisting the inevitable and let herself drift off for a bit. She'd not been exaggerating that first night in Hobbiton when she'd told Bilbo she could sleep in a tree. Many a time before the spiders came, she and the Woodland guard had taken refuge in the leafy canopy for the night; the treetops provided excellent shelter, sightlines, and camouflage. Not that she and Norithil needed those things in the safety of the Shire, she reminded herself. Still, it was her habit to be alert, and she kept an ear cocked even as the wind whispered through the leaves overhead and the burble of the brook floated her off to sleep. It reassured her that only another of her kind would be agile enough to approach undetected, and she and Norithil were the sole elves in Hobbiton . . .

* * *

"What's this? The former captain of the guard asleep at her post? I never thought I'd see the day!"

Tauriel jerked awake, hand on the dagger at her hip in the instant before her vision cleared of sleep and the intruder came into focus. He was the spitting image of . . . "Legolas," she breathed in wonder. And then, finally sure the square-jawed Sindarin prince with hair like a shaft of sunlight wasn't the mere remnant of some dream: "My Lord Legolas! _Iston i nîf lîn!_ "

"And I know yours, Tauriel. It has been often in my thoughts," he returned with a warm smile. At the sight of it, a familiar joy welled within her, one born of centuries fighting at each other's backs by day and jesting over wine by night. She dropped from her tree branch with catlike grace and, in the space of a heartbeat, had entwined her arm with that of her old friend and clasped his hand in the customary greeting of Woodland guards. She was taken aback, however, when he tightened his grip and pulled her close to kiss her cheek.

The former captain stiffened in response. It wasn't that Legolas had never kissed her thus before, but the intimacy of the gesture felt somehow inappropriate now. As did his very presence here in Hobbiton, where she had escaped to begin a new life for herself and her son. The elven prince had entered her thoughts many a time since then but only as a fond memory from a chapter in her history that she had deliberately closed.

"Here, let me look at you." Legolas took her by the shoulders and held her away from him, eyes as piercingly blue as his father's as he searched the face she was abashedly sure was still flushed from her abrupt awakening. "Tauriel, Daughter of the Forest," he said after a moment, translating her name into the Common Tongue, "the Greenwood fades, but your beauty does not."

Did she imagine it, or was there as much relief as admiration in that compliment? In any case, Legolas wasn't in the habit of remarking on her appearance, and his sudden interest in it made Tauriel uncomfortable enough to subtly shrug out of his grasp, crossing her arms over her chest as if to ward off a wintry gust in May.

His brow furrowed. "You _are_ well, are you not?" The elder elf studied her intently, seeming to peer _through_ her in a way that further disconcerted her.

"Certainly. I've never felt better," she lied. She was troubled enough by her own exhaustion of late. No need to trouble him, as well.

 _"Ma."_ His face relaxed back into a smile. "That is what I hoped you would say."

Tauriel, too, was thankful to note that her old comrade-in-arms appeared in good spirits and bore no trace of the haunted look Glaewen had described after his return to Thranduil's Halls. She hoped with all her heart that he had found whatever he was seeking on his travels. Which brought to mind an urgent question . . .

"How did you find me here?" she asked a bit tightly.

"If by 'here' you mean this clearing in the wood, your halfling host told me where to look. If, however, you mean Hobbiton, I discovered that from your friend the healer."

Shock and dismay widened Tauriel's eyes. "Glaewen told you where I was?" After all this time, she couldn't believe her faithful friend would betray her confidence!

"No. But she is a poor liar. When I went home and made inquiry into your disappearance, I could tell she knew more than she let on. So when she left for Imladris soon after, I sent a thrush to keep an eye on her. Lo and behold, she led it directly to you." His self-satisfied tone shifted to one of apology. "Please understand I would've come straightaway, but by the time the thrush returned, it was too late to cross the mountains before the snows."

The redhead hardly knew whether to be annoyed that the Woodland royal had had her followed or touched that he'd cared enough to do it, but he must've read her conflict in her eyes because the next minute he said, "Forgive me, Tauriel, for resorting to such crude means to find you, but you must understand that my concern for your welfare outweighed all other considerations."

"Including any consideration of my own consent to be spied upon," was her dry retort.

 _"Meldis."_ Legolas took a step toward her, his voice gliding tenderly over the endearment. "It was never my intent to spy on you. But remember that when last I saw you on Ravenhill, that place of death, you were utterly distraught, and by all accounts in my father's halls, you were in grave condition until such time as you left the realm. You didn't think I could allow you to simply vanish in such a state?"

The warrior maid tilted her chin up by several degrees. "No, _hîr vuin_. Apparently you are the only one who is allowed to vanish." The spark of bitterness in her tone surprised even herself. Until this very moment, she hadn't realized how much she resented Legolas for abandoning her in her grief.

The fair-haired ellon flinched. "You've every right to take me to task for leaving without word, my friend. For that I can only offer my sincerest regret." He took another step forward even as she retreated from his outstretched hand, his expression pained. "But it was precisely because we hadn't the chance for a proper good-bye that I needed to find you. To explain, if you'll but let me, why I left."

Tauriel _did_ want to hear his explanation, but her more immediate concern was who else he might've told of her whereabouts.

"No one. My father has issued a warrant for your arrest as a deserter, but I no longer report to him or anyone else in his kingdom. I respect your reasons for leaving. They are mine as well."

 _No, they are not,_ she thought suddenly. Oh, what would he say if he knew the real reason she'd left, who slept quietly in a basket just feet away from them?

"May we sit somewhere and talk?"

Tauriel nodded her consent, and they moved to the large, flat-topped rocks that lined the banks of the stream. The little frog that had sung so affably for Norithil not an hour ago sprang away and, with a decisive splash, disappeared into the shallows.

For awhile, Legolas squinted at the elusive, ever-shifting surface of the water, which in the sunlight seemed laced with diamonds. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet yet earnest. "My whole life, Tauriel, I looked to my father, the king, to know what to believe and how to act on those beliefs. I believed in _him_ —his wisdom, his judgment, his honorable intentions for the kingdom. No one had more of my respect or admiration." He paused, twisting a reed on the shore into some animal shape—a deer or an elk—as elven children were wont to do. "But when he threatened your life for speaking the truth, I saw him as he really is—a petty, narrow-minded overlord whose only currency is fear, that which he acts on himself and that which he inspires in others. He will always be my father, but I couldn't continue to serve him as my king. Not even one day more. Can you understand?"

Recalling that moment on Ravenhill when Thranduil's veil of pride had slipped to reveal eyes brimming with compassion, Tauriel said, "I think perhaps you underestimate him, but yes, I understand."

A small but hopeful smile played over the prince's lips. "I thought you would. We've always been of the same mind, you and I. We fight to protect this world we live in, not retreat into our shells and hide from it like that turtle on the log there." She followed his gaze toward the oblivious reptile sunning itself in its mottled armor. Legolas turned toward her then, and she could hear the passion in his voice as he said, "I've been traveling among the Dúnedain Rangers. They are mortal men, it is true, but in battle they rival the best warriors of the Firstborn. What's more, they understand that Gundabad was a mere shadow of the gathering darkness and have dedicated themselves to defending the Free Peoples of Middle-earth. With them, I feel at last as though my life has a purpose."

This was gratifying news! Until now, Tauriel had pictured her old friend wandering aimlessly, alone and disconsolate. "A _noble_ purpose." In her happiness for him, she covered one of his hands with her own. "My heart sings to hear it!"

"It could be your purpose, as well." Now she stared, perplexed, as Legolas glanced down at their joined hands and squeezed. When he looked back up, his gaze was very intent on hers. "Come with me, Tauriel. Join us. Side by side, we will accomplish more than either of us could alone."

For a split second, the onetime captain heard the call of the battle horn in her mind. Truly, she missed the rush she felt in the heat of the fray, and she had always longed to be part of some greater mission than the Mirkwood border patrols to which King Thranduil had restricted her. But, she reminded herself, she _did_ have a greater mission now, albeit a more personal one—raising Norithil and protecting _him_ from harm. "My lord," she began, "you and the other Rangers have my full support for the work you are doing, and if I can ever be of assistance to you here in Hobbiton, you must tell me. But I cannot—"

"Please. Hear me out. There's more I've not said. About why I left home . . . without bidding you good-bye . . . "

Suddenly, Legolas was fumbling for words with a certain desperation, struggling to meet her eyes, the typical self-assurance of the high-born nowhere to be seen. As anxious as Tauriel was for him to complete his thought, she schooled herself to wait until he was ready to continue, and at last he was.

"The reason was that, after the Battle of Five, I . . . I couldn't face you."

The Silvan maid's breath caught, the old, sleeping guilt that had plagued her in the wake of her friend's departure stirring back to life on that indrawn gasp. So she'd been right! It _was_ at least partly her fault that Legolas had left! Was it because she'd forsaken her brother-in-arms to stay in Laketown and heal an escaped prisoner? Or because it was she who'd driven the final wedge between him and his father? Or because she'd led him into almost certain doom on Ravenhill to save his sworn enemy, a dwarf?

As it turned out, the answer was not any she had anticipated.

"I couldn't bear to stay and watch you grieve the _naug_." Legolas swallowed thickly and continued. "The way you looked at him from the very beginning, it was . . . intolerable. And then once he was gone and I saw you weep over him . . . I couldn't bear the prospect of watching you weep over him every day thereafter."

At this, Tauriel's cheeks flamed the color of her hair, though more from pique than shame, and she withdrew her hand from his grasp. Legolas had made no secret of how he felt about dwarves, but to hear him express his revulsion in such blatant terms was like a slap to the face. One thing she would never feel guilty about was the love she'd felt for Kíli! _Still felt_ , in truth. Despite eyes that stung with hurt, she lifted her chin. "You mean to say I gave you such a disgust that you couldn't stand the sight of me?"

Legolas turned his head toward her sharply. "No! I don't mean that at all. I wasn't disgusted with you, Tauriel; I was disgusted with myself."

She frowned, uncomprehending. "But why?"

"For being such a fool for the past six hundred years not to realize what I had until it was gone!" His vehemence startled her, and she drew back, but in a swift movement, he leaned forward and clasped her hands again, locking his eyes on hers. "Do you not feel it, Tauriel? You, who were named captain of the guard because you were the most perceptive of us all. You who could hear the spiders sneeze in the treetops and smell an athelas blossom unfold on the other side of the Mirkwood! _Dost thou not see?_ "

Tauriel shook her head helplessly. Longtime friend though he was, the Sindarin prince, guarded even in his most casual moments, had never addressed her so familiarly or with such naked emotion. Yes, she feared she _was_ beginning to see, but, o Valar, she would rather have been blind!

"Tauriel, Tauriel," Legolas repeated her name like a charm, eyes bright and feverish with urgency, the pressure of his hands just short of painful, "forgive me. I should've told thee centuries ago, but I was young and stupid enough to think I'd have centuries more. Tauriel . . . I love thee!"

For an embarrassingly long moment, she sat frozen, too mortified to reply. Before she'd met Kíli and learned what love truly was, Tauriel hadn't been insensitive to the attraction between Legolas and herself, but never had she guessed the feelings ran so deep on his side. Guilt squeezed her in its vice again as she searched her memory for anything she had unwittingly said or done to make him think she could return such a declaration. While she sat like a courtyard statue with her mouth agape, Legolas tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and more gently, almost wonderingly, as if he couldn't quite believe the sentiment himself, said, "Yes . . . yes, I _do_ love thee. _Gi melin,_ Tauriel."

"Legolas," she began, feeling it ridiculous now to call him "my lord" yet not wanting to be overly familiar, "there is something I must tell you . . . " To buy herself time to think, she made an attempt at clearing her throat.

"Yes _, meleth nîn_?"

Instantly her heart recoiled from the sound of those words on his lips, for she had only ever called one person by that endearment, and he was not here. "Please, I must ask you _not_ to—"

A high-pitched wail pierced the air, shattering the moment. Time seemed to stand still as the pair of elves stared at each other, shifting emotions rippling over them like the sunlight on the water. On the ellon's face, surprise bloomed, followed by confusion, concern, and then something akin to dread.

 _The babe!_

Her trance broken, Tauriel leapt from the rock where she sat as though it burned her, flew to the little one's basket, and gathered him up in her arms. He yawned, rubbed his heavy eyes, and reached for her, immediately pacified at the presence of his _nana_ , who clucked and bounced him a bit to ease him awake.

The young mother felt Legolas's rounded eyes boring into her back. She knew she could no longer avoid the subject of the child; but, frankly, she no longer cared to. Whatever her opinionated elder thought of this half-elfling or half-dwarfling, she refused to feel guilty for giving life to one who had blessed her own so richly.

And so, with the babe on her hip and determination in her heart, Tauriel whirled to face the elven prince who had been like a brother for most of her life and had just now declared his love. "My Lord Legolas," she said, ignoring the way he blanched as she bowed before him, "allow me to present Norithil, my son."

* * *

nana—mama

Iston i nîf lîn—I know your face (used metaphorically in my headcanon as "Long time no see")

ma—good

meldis—friend

hîr vuin—my lord

Gi melin—I love you

A/N: MILD SPOILER: I know some of you were hoping to see Tauriel give Legolas a real tongue lashing, but I ended up splitting this chapter in two, so that will happen next time. I can say that with confidence because the next chapter is mostly written already. ;)


	22. Chapter 22 - A Friendship Tested

A/N: Hi, everybody! Thank you for all your reviews, the follows and favorites, and especially the good wishes and prayers for my health! You're so lovely! :)

I'm very grateful to Moonraykir this week for saving this update from what could've been a huge fail and giving it to me straight about a chapter ending that wrapped up too easily. Thank you, Moonraykir! :)

Guest 9/26: That's very sweet of you to say, and I'm so glad you're enjoying it! Thank you for reading and reviewing! :)

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 22**

 **A Friendship Tested**

* * *

"My Lord Legolas," Tauriel said with a bow, "allow me to present Norithil, my son."

Yes, Legolas could see the child _was_ her son and not some young halfling she was tending for the afternoon, as he'd thought (or perhaps hoped) when first he heard the babe's cry. Elven blood was readily apparent in the fair, nearly translucent complexion; pointed ears, large on a head that size; and eyes the same shape and shade as his mother's, maybe a tad darker. But it was just as apparent that the blood of another race had mixed with that of the Eldar, for the child sported more hair on his head than could be found on the entire body of an elven infant, and his nose was still flat as a suckling babe's, a hallmark of mortal young, who nursed at the breasts of their mothers until as late as the second or third year after birth.

 _Norithil._ The literal translation was "fire moon," a nonsense term that would've meant nothing to Legolas if he hadn't overheard the _naug_ use it to refer to a blood eclipse as he talked with Tauriel in the dungeon. (By Arda, what he would give now to go back in time and call her away from that conversation!) And hadn't there been a blood eclipse several nights hence? Why, yes, there had! _Elo!_ Tauriel had been in Esgaroth then, with the _naug_ . . .

Legolas performed a few mental calculations, which ended in the sudden knowledge of what humans meant when they spoke of being sick to the stomach, for his was churning violently, and he had the strong urge to expel its contents. The vision of his beloved, graceful and pure, in the boorish arms of that slovenly mountain-rat, suffering his rude lust, swam before him like a cruel taunt. "Oh, my lovely one," he gasped, "forgive me! I never should've left you alone with the _naug._ Did he—?" He almost couldn't bring himself to say it. "Did he force himself—?"

" _Ú!_ No! Kíli would never do such a vile thing!" Tauriel cried before he could finish. "He is—he _was_ —" She faltered, then continued more calmly but firmly, "He _was_ kind and gentle. None of the dwarves were anything less than honorable during my stay with them. What occurred between Kíli and myself was— That is, I _chose_ to—" Color touched her cheeks as she fumbled for words in such a delicate matter. "I chose the bond."

Legolas relaxed slightly, for at least she hadn't been ravished against her will. But to think she'd _willingly_ joined herself to that—

Another wave of revulsion hit, but he got hold of himself, for it wouldn't do to be humiliated in front of Tauriel as well as heartsick. Now it made sense that she had appeared so radiant when he'd seen her the morning after the dragon's attack, for the Vanyar, Noldor, and some of the Sindar could see the outline of one's _fëa_ in excitation and its brightness after union with another. Legolas himself was blessed with this gift of spiritual sight. At the time, he'd dismissed Tauriel's radiance, for recent exertion in battle or healing could also bring on a glow, albeit not usually one so warm and golden.

And yet, the radiance of union was a permanent change—the _fëa_ of an elf once bonded was forever brighter—and Tauriel's _fëa_ had lost that additional brightness by the time he found her on Ravenhill, keening over the dwarf's cold body. That was why it hadn't occurred to him that she could've bonded with the creature. Even now, her spirit was dimmer than he'd ever seen it despite her unfading beauty, which worried him but also gave him hope that the death of the mortal had released her from their unnatural bond.

Gradually, Legolas became aware that Tauriel and the babe were staring at him expectantly. And no wonder! In his shock, he'd neglected the proper greetings. " _Suil_ , Norithil. _Ci maer?_ " he said rather stiffly to the babe, as courtesy dictated. And then, when the moment passed while the youngling regarded him in silence: "He doesn't speak?"

The infant's mother shifted him higher on her hip and met her elder's gaze with surprising directness. "Not yet." How strange that she seemed not the least disturbed—yea, almost proud—about what was likely a fell sign of the child's diluted blood!

"Nor is he weaned, I see. Does he walk?"

"He's learning to crawl."

"By the stars and all that is holy, Tauriel!" Legolas exploded in Sindarin. "How could you bring a half-breed child into the world without a thought as to how his mortal blood would compromise him? What if he never walks? What if he never _speaks_? With a dwarven sire, he could be feeble-minded!"

The redhead narrowed her eyes, which glinted, reminding him of the light that flashed off her daggers in combat. "Dwarves are no fools, and my son is no simpleton," she said with deadly softness.

Still, he didn't back down. "How can you know? Wasn't his grandfather a raving lunatic and his great-uncle a goldsick hothead? And the scion of that tainted blood, his father—"

A crowing sound reverberated through the clearing, cutting him off. The familiar rasp of a raven. But when Legolas looked round, there was no bird to be seen.

There was only the babe, staring back at him mutely. Had the cry come from this child? But that was impossible. He hadn't even mastered basic greetings yet! But even as Legolas dismissed the notion, the little one tilted his head back and craned his neck, waiting.

Legolas heard the beating of wings seconds before they appeared overhead, a flock of ravens soaring east in a _whoosh_ of jet black feathers. The child thrust his hand skyward at these birds that were not birds but a storm cloud, a whirlwind of sound, and extended a finger to trace the direction of their flight. Then, to the grown ellon's amazement, the youngling opened his mouth, and, his intonation as perfect as if he'd had a thousand years to practice it, gave a triumphant _crraaaww_! One after the next, the birds swooped by, each returning the call with their own raucous greeting until finally the last one had passed. Only then did the babe look back at Legolas, flap his short arms, and burst into a jolly peal of laughter the likes of which the Sindarin prince had never heard out of an elfling.

Those eyes, green like mountain pine! There was awareness in them! An intelligence that didn't need to be spoken to be plainly seen. And something familiar, too . . . An expression of Tauriel's, perhaps, that Legolas couldn't quite place? He couldn't tear his own eyes away.

"Now, what were you saying about tainted blood?"

As if waking from a dream, Legolas shifted his cloudy gaze back to the red-haired elleth who stood before him. "Err, yes," he mumbled, "tainted blood, the child's father—"

"Is Kíli of Erebor, who died a hero in the Battle of Five, sister-son of Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, of the House of Durin. That blood built two of the greatest kingdoms in the history of Middle-earth. It is pure enough for anyone!" Tauriel pronounced in the hard, imperious tone previously reserved for imprisoned enemies. "It is purer than my own, and, as your mother's mother was a lowly Nando, Prince Legolas, I dare say it is purer even than yours." The Silvan beauty straightened to her full height, tall and proud. "But, if that is not pure enough for you to cease casting aspersions on my son's intellectual and bodily fitness, then you are welcome to leave us be and seek the company of those you deem worthy of your esteemed bloodline."

Teetering between offense and awe, the Woodland prince wondered for a fleeting moment if this was what his father had felt when Tauriel defied him. He wasn't sure he liked this side of the warrior maid when it was directed at himself! But a second later, she bowed and walked away, spurring him to action. "Tauriel, wait!" He caught her elbow, drawing a glare from her, but after coming so far, he wasn't about to let her give him the slip now. "Please. Forgive me. I meant no insult to you."

"Any insult to myself I can forgive. But not to my _meleth_ or our son."

"I admit that I was not acquainted with your Kíli and that some of his people have accomplished much in their short time on earth. Certainly he died with honor. I meant no insult to the babe, either. I am only concerned for the welfare of you both."

"You needn't be," Tauriel said primly. "We've been getting on just fine on our own."

"All the way out here in the Shire? Surely you cannot intend to raise your son here alone?"

"We are not alone." She dodged him and kept walking. "We have friends. And we happen to like the Shire. It's beautiful country, peaceful and safe."

"And a day's ride from the nearest elves! Your hobbit friends may give you all the tea you can drink, but you know they cannot provide an elfling with the nutriment, the education, the recreation that he needs. The medicine, if it comes to that!" She slowed to a stop, and Legolas knew her conviction had faltered. Seizing his opportunity, he closed the distance between them in a few bounds. "I ask you again to come with me, Tauriel. Let me look after you _and_ the babe. Please, my love—"

If he'd thought she was softening, he'd been wrong. Her whole body went rigid. "You must not call me that!"

"But, my heart, it is the truth. I love thee!"

She gave a little wail of despair. "Oh, how can you say that when you see the proof of my love for another here in my arms?"

Norithil, too, made a questioning sound and turned his observant eyes back on Legolas, who sighed, perturbed that a mere babe could affect him so. "The way I feel for thee has not changed."

"And the way I feel for _him_ has not changed! So help me Valinor . . . " She blinked rapidly, and he had to restrain himself from taking her into his arms, for she seemed on the verge of tears. "Legolas, I don't understand you. You know that a bond of love once made cannot be broken."

 _"Meleth nîn—"_ he protested.

" _No!_ There is only one who may call me that, and he is not here!" She tried to step around the taller ellon, but he blocked her path.

"Yes, you are right. The dwarf is not here. Nor does he wait for you in Valinor." Tauriel clapped a hand to her mouth to hold back a sob, and Legolas gently steadied her shoulders, partly to support her and partly to make her hear what he had to say. "I know that you loved him, Tauriel, but love for a mortal cannot last. They do not love as we do. Their spirits cannot bond with ours. Not for all eternity." As she raised her tearful eyes to his, he said, "Kíli of Erebor is gone. But thou art free now, my dearest. Free to love again."

Norithil's face crumpled, and he began to cry.

* * *

No doubt the babe sensed his _nana's_ distress. Shooting Legolas the universal warning glare of mothers, Tauriel turned away to comfort her son in private. In truth, she needed a moment apart as much as he did.

While it pained her, she had to acknowledge that perhaps Legolas had unknowingly spoken the truth. Kíli was not dead, but perhaps his mortal spirit could not bond with her immortal one. Perhaps that was why he had not loved her after all. But that changed nothing about the state of her own heart, which belonged to him with every beat.

When Norithil was calmer, Tauriel put him back in his basket with some wooden blocks that Aldo Sawcutter had made and faced her unexpected suitor again. She didn't wish to hurt him after so many years of friendship, but she had to make him understand that it could never be anything more than that. "It matters not," she said, "where Kíli is or whether he feels me in his heart. I feel him in mine—always, every day, everywhere."

Legolas shook his head adamantly. "That isn't possible. Bonding with a mortal isn't like that."

"And how would you know? With what mortal have you bonded? With what mortal has any of our race ever bonded without becoming mortal as well? I tell you it was and _is_ like that for me."

He fell silent for a moment, for he had no answer, then said, "If you cannot love me, then won't you at least let _me_ love _you_?" When she started to protest, he interrupted. "I am not speaking of marriage. I merely ask that you come with me and let me give you the life you deserve."

It was Tauriel's turn to shake her head. "Oh, Legolas, how can you talk of loving me when you would call the very best part of me, my son, _tainted_ and _compromised_?"

"I was mistaken!" He glanced toward the basket where Norithil played with his blocks. "I can see now that he is not. If you come with me, I will take care of you both. I know I can learn to love him, too!"

"You should not have to _learn_ to love a child, Legolas. You simply do."

He winced at her rebuke. "Will you not let me try? I've never fathered a youngling, and all this is new to me." In desperation, he stepped toward her, clenching his fists as though to stop himself from touching her. "I am certain I will love anyone whom thou lovest, for I love _thee_!"

"Why?"

Legolas's face momentarily went blank at her blunt question.

"Why do you love me?" she repeated.

Once he understood what she was asking, he seemed eager to enumerate the reasons for his affection. "Because you are honorable, brave and strong, loyal, just, determined, dedicated to what is right . . . "

She held up a hand to stop him. "I am flattered by such high praise, but you are speaking of a warrior who fought at your side. Why do you love _me_ , Legolas?"

He wrinkled his brow, stupefied, as she had expected. "I—I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

"You told me earlier that you knew why I'd left the Mirkwood. Why do you suppose I did?"

"I thought it was because my father so foolishly stripped you of your position and your standing. But now I suppose it was because of the babe?"

"But why did I journey so far? I could've gone to Dale, for instance, in a few days' time. King Bard owed me a debt of gratitude and would gladly have taken me in. Why did I come, as you put it, 'all the way out here to the Shire'?"

"I don't know," he confessed. "Why did you?"

She answered with a hushed intensity that illuminated her eyes like twin stars. "Because I wanted to see the world. I wanted to see with my own eyes everything I'd only heard about in tales. "

"Oh!" Legolas looked startled, as if his captain had just delivered a worrisome report from the front lines.

"I've wanted to travel beyond our borders for centuries, Legolas. To meet others who were not like us and learn their ways of life."

"Well, I could've taken you anywhere you wanted to go if I knew you felt so strongly about it."

"But you didn't know because you never asked me!" she burst out. "Kíli _asked_. He asked me to go with him to Erebor because in three days he knew the desire of my heart. In six hundred years, Legolas, you never did!"

"I—"

"Where did I used to go walking alone at night?"

"You mean to the edge of the Mirkwood?"

"And why did I go there?"

"T-to be sure it was secure."

She shook her head in exasperation. "To look at the stars! To step for a moment outside of myself and be part of something vast and unknowable. Legolas, you stand there and tell me that you love me, but you do not know me!"

"Then let me!" he cried.

"No," she said, and there was no trace of regret in her voice. "You had centuries to know me. Not the captain of the royal guard. _Me_. My joys and heartaches, my fears, my hopes and dreams for the future. But you never did. If you truly wanted to know who I was beyond what you _wished_ to see, by now you would."

Legolas was speechless, but the archer maid could see her reproach had hit its target because he stared at her, white-faced, as if seeing her for the first time. Then, after a long moment, he wheeled and returned to the riverbank, where he sank onto one of the flat-topped rocks, his head in his hand.

Minutes passed with only the commentary of the brook and the breeze and Norithil as he exclaimed over his toys. When at last she could bear it no longer, Tauriel approached the slumped figure and put a tentative hand on his shoulder.

Without looking up, he said, "I've never meant to lose sight of the elleth you are and replace her with some vision of my own creation." Then he _did_ look up, and she almost flinched away from the naked emotion on his face. "Tauriel, please! If truly I've failed to love you as you should be loved, then how can I love you better?"

"By letting me go." When he opened his mouth to object, she continued as gently as possible, "There are many ways to love, Legolas, and I _do_ believe you love me in one of them. But not as your _meleth e-guilen_."

He frowned in disbelief. "Your words confound me. After all these years, I thought I knew my heart. Can what it tells me be wrong?"

"I think when you find your _meleth_ , you will not have to ask that question."

The fair-haired ellon shook his head, in disagreement or despair Tauriel couldn't tell, and went back to watching the ebb and flow of the stream. It was several minutes more before he spoke again. "I don't know what more to say."

"Say that you are still my friend, as I am yours, if you can."

"I do not know how to be." When he looked up at her this time, the sorrow in his eyes made him appear as old as he really was. "Not yet." In one swift motion, he rose to his feet. "Perhaps in time."

"It is a start," she ventured.

He nodded once, briefly. "I will leave you now." Legolas called to his horse, who trotted out of the trees at his master's command, and swung himself into the saddle. Then he turned back once more to the elleth who had just rejected his affection. He began to say something, thought better of it, then said it anyhow: "Before you met him, did you ever think of me that way?"

The elven prince didn't need to define "him" or "that way." Tauriel understood the question. She also tried to answer it honestly, for she knew a lie would ultimately hurt him more than the truth. "I thought of you with the great fondness that some mistake for love before they know differently."

He swallowed and set his jaw. Then, after an almost imperceptible nod, he said, "I _am_ sorry . . . for your loss."

Tauriel bit her lip, and her eyes grew moist, for although she knew Kíli lived, she felt his loss every day. "Thank you," she replied, and meant it.

She watched her old friend go with sadness since she might not be able to call him her friend again but also with the peace that came from having declared the truth of her heart. Only much later, when she had returned to the _smial_ , after supper had been eaten, dishes washed and dried, the fire put out, and Norithil rocked to sleep, as she lay abed (for once again she was tired), a memory came to her of something Gandalf had said that night they'd stayed at the inn in Bree:

 _"You will be cared for deeply by those who know you in Hobbiton, as you have always been cared for by others where'er you've been known, even when_ _**you** __did not know it."_

Her breath caught as she realized the wizard had been right. She _was_ cared for deeply by Bilbo, Bell, Peony, and others she now knew in Hobbiton, and though she hadn't been aware of it until she left the Woodland, Glaewen and even Legolas, in his own way, had cared for her more deeply than she'd known, too.

By the Valar, the wizard was a prophet!

Where else had she been, she wondered, that someone cared for her more than she knew?

* * *

 _August, T.A. 2943—Orthanc_

Saruman the White was not pleased.

The first agent he'd sent to the Shire almost a year ago to sniff out the redheaded she-elf had frozen to death in a blizzard along the Greenway, the second had been devoured by a pack of Wargs, and the wizard's crow had lost contact with the third somewhere in the Barrow-downs. He'd have to send one made of tougher stuff this time. These Dunlendings had the intelligence of men and were easy enough to bend to his will, for they were used to wild living and had few compunctions, but they were, after all, _only_ men. If only he could employ an orc, who would be hardier and more resistant to the elements or animal attack! Yet orcs were not shrewd enough to disguise themselves as spies. In a better world, there would have existed a cross between the two, the best of both races, a half-man or half-orc . . .

 _Well, and wasn't it Saruman's express goal to create that better world?_

But here was this dolt before him, just now come from Dale, a dark, scrappy fellow who had so few teeth it was a wonder he could form any words. Saruman settled back on his throne, for he ruled in Isengard if nowhere else yet, and cocked one of the bold, dark brows that contrasted so starkly with his snowy hair. "Well? What have you to say for yourself? I've little time to spare and none for useless dullards."

"You athked me to report any happeningth at Erebor," the Dunlending lisped through the gaps in his teeth. "Lord Dáin Ironfoot hath left the Lonely Mountain and taken a thouthand warriorth with him."

"What?" Saruman nearly rose out of his seat. "When?"

"In late April, m'lord."

"In late April? It is late _August_! Why did you not send my crow to me at once?"

"I did, m'lord. But 'twath an old crow and frail. Mayhap it did not live long enough to carry the methage."

Saruman grimaced. He'd lost time while the Dunlending returned with the news on foot, but there was nothing to be done about it now. "In which direction was the army headed? East?"

"Yeth, m'lord. Toward the Iron Hillth. I tracked them for five dayth."

A sly grin spread over the wizard's face. So Dáin had grown tired of playing second fiddle to the young King under the Mountain and left for his own country. Surely Erebor would be vulnerable in the wake of this literal changing of the guard! Thanks to Saruman's own cunning, Gandalf was still gadding about in search of Glorfindel, leaving the little heir of Durin unprotected, and enough time had passed since the Grey confided in the White that an attack on Erebor could no longer be traced directly to Isengard.

If he wanted to ensure another Durin did not rise, Saruman would have to form a plan and act quickly, before the Dwarves of Erebor recovered from their recent losses. Now was the time.

The wizard dismissed the Dunlending and strode to the pedestal at the center of the room, on which sat a covered globe. His gnarled hand hovered over it, some lingering doubt giving him pause. To Saruman's great joy, after he had searched for the _palantír_ , the Orthanc-stone, for decades and nearly given it up for lost, his encounter with Sauron had culminated in the revelation of its hiding place within the tower. Yet so far he'd been reluctant to use it, wary of Sauron's prying eye. He wasn't certain how much of his own activity the Dark Lord could view through the _palantír_. However, if he was to attack the most elusive king in Middle-earth inside his mountain stronghold, the Istar would need to see his intended victim.

He would look into the Seeing Stone just long enough to plan his attack against King Kíli of Erebor, he promised himself. After that, he would not use it again.

Saruman the White inhaled deeply and whipped the cover off the stone.

* * *

ú—no

suil—greetings

Ci maer?—Are you well?

A/N: According to Tolkien, Saruman only begins using the Orthanc-stone in T.A. 3000. I've taken creative license with the first date of use for the purposes of this story.


	23. Chapter 23 - A Shaky Foundation

A/N: Hi, guys! A great big thank-you to everyone who took the time to leave a review on the last chapter, and welcome aboard to those of you who are just joining us and recently followed and/or favorited!

Many thanks, as ever, to Moonraykir for giving me her invaluable perspective and catching all my errors!

Guest 10/2: Thank you for your good wishes! I'm glad you liked the chapter and that you're eager to know how Kili and Tauriel find their way back to each other. I'd say I'm eager to know, too, but of course I already _do_ know (heehee), so maybe I should say I'm eager to write it. :) That's very sweet of you to ask about my original work, and I appreciate your interest! I have five or six book ideas, but I'm always second-guessing which ones, if any, people would actually like to read. Right now, I have a web site under construction (thatelfgirl at Wordpress) where I hope to post some excerpts so visitors can tell me themselves which idea sounds interesting, and whatever visitors choose is what I'll write. When the site is ready to go, I'll let you know here in the author's notes, and I'll also mention it in my member profile. Thanks again for asking! :)

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chap. 23**

 **A Shaky Foundation**

* * *

 _October 24, T.A. 2943—Erebor_

Kíli, King of Erebor rubbed one of his temples as Glóin, Chief of Finance spouted off a string of figures from his quarterly report. They weren't encouraging, adding up to more struggle and hardship in the mountain city. When Glóin had finished reading, Kíli called on each department represented at the table, nodding to the councilors one by one.

"Engineering?"

"Two smelters in the Southeast Mines in need o' repair. Northwest Mines still only operatin' at a quarter o' capacity. Requestin' a budget increase o' thirty percent fer renovations," Bombur said in his terse, soft-spoken manner.

"Internal Affairs?"

"Thirty-nine fam'lies has been displaced due to floodin' in the first residential quarter on Level Four. The pipes needs replacin' in the rest o' the quarter plus the second and third to prevent more floodin'. The entire fifth quarter o' Level Two, which houses ninety-eight fam'lies, was condemned three days ago, structurally unsound. Plus we've got a shortage o' grains, with a third o' the people sayin' they don't got enough to last 'em through the comin' winter. We're respectfully askin' Yer Majesty ta double our budget so's we can replace the pipes on Level Four, reconstruct the fifth quarter o' Level Two, and provide emergency rations to folks who can't afford 'em."

"Transportation?"

"Our main concern is the Three Diamond Bridge, sire. Thank Mahal none were seriously hurt in the collapse, but half the miners can't git ta work now without goin' an hour outta their way both mornin' and evenin' ta pick up the Lower South Road from the Little Gorge Bypass. And the bypass is narrow and gits real slick sometimes, makin' it a hazard when it gits crowded."

"What's the estimated cost to rebuild the bridge?"

"Two and a half million pounds, sire."

There were murmurs round the Council Chamber. Two and a half million pounds was an enormous sum, which would've been manageable for a prosperous Erebor but was inconceivable for a destitute one. Kíli's head throbbed, and he wondered how he'd gotten the city into this mess. Surely he was the worst king of all time! Aye, the military was almost as strong as it had been before Dáin's departure but at what cost to the people? Kíli's foremost goal had been to keep them safe from external attack, but now they were in danger from an internal implosion of crumbling infrastructure and dwindling supplies which they lacked the funds to restore.

 _And Tauriel._ What of his love? How could he ever ask her to leave the comfort of the Elvenking's halls and live in this pit of destruction with him? Unbidden, his thoughts strayed to a memory of her, one of the few he had: They were lying shoulder to shoulder on the beach, and he'd made some jest in hopes of winning her smile. Her head had turned, a clever response at the ready, but he couldn't remember what she'd said. He could only see her eyes, which he'd known even then were more brilliant than the emeralds of Erebor, and he'd been right. Oh, how right he'd been! She was a jewel far too dear for a city that—

Heads were turning at some commotion in the hallway, a scuffle outside the Council Chamber where Kíli's guard was stationed. "An urgent message fer Gen'ral Dwalin from Colonel Annar! Step aside and let me pass!" ordered a muffled voice from the other side of the door. Then the door opened, and in burst a soldier in uniform.

* * *

 _October 24, T.A. 2943—Hobbiton_

Bag End was much changed from the stodgy bachelor's retreat where Tauriel had first taken high tea among a collection of doilies and polished silverware. This afternoon, all the windows were thrown wide to let in the sunshine, which glossed a brightly painted child-sized table, chair, cup, plate, bowl, and shelves that now shared space with the more sedate full-scale furnishings in the kitchen. Scattered feeding bottles, linen bibs, wooden blocks, and silver rattles had replaced breakable vases and figurines, and there was not a doily in sight.

"Oh, look at the pony! It's got a silver mane and tail, and it's called Spoon! And what's that on its back? Why, it's a load of applesauce! It's galloping 'cross the meadow . . . it's galloping 'cross the brook . . . it's galloping 'cross the pasture . . . aaaaaaand (open your mouth) straight into the barn!"

Norithil stopped laughing just long enough to swallow the spoonful, then started back up again.

"Right, there's a good little chap! Now, open wide again for Uncle Bilbo . . . "

"Bib-bo! Weeeeeeee!" squealed Norithil, bouncing in his seat.

The hobbit's face lit up. "T-Tauriel! H-h-he knows my name! Norithil knows my name!"

"So I hear, Bibbo." Tauriel teased as she puttered about the kitchen.

A fortnight ago, about the same time he'd begun to eat solids and pull himself up to stand, the babe had started to say _"Nana,"_ then "rock," "tree," and "food." He'd passed these milestones later than most elflings but also sooner than most dwarflings if Glaewen's research was to be believed, thereby allaying his mother's fears of slow development. Now it seemed the latest addition to his vocabulary was the name of the middle-aged bachelor who remarked off-hand, "You know, if someone told me this time last year that I'd be making up stories about applesauce ponies whilst spoon-feeding a baby, I would've asked what sort of weed was in his pipe. But I quite like making up stories for this little fellow! And if some days I spend more time making up stories for him than I do for my book, what of it?"

The Silvan Elf smiled to herself, almost as proud of the hobbit as she was of her son. In spite of all his assertions to the contrary, "Uncle Bilbo" was proving to be a natural with younglings. "Try him on the gravy there, won't you?" she flung over her shoulder as she crisscrossed the room balancing clean dishes.

"The gravy? That stuff's got giblets, you know. I thought elflings weren't overfond of meat."

"Said the hobbit who never saw an elfling before this one," Tauriel bantered back to avoid acknowledging that most elflings didn't eat meat at all. But Glaewen had said that meat was the most important staple of a dwarfling's diet and that Norithil should be introduced to it as soon as he was eating solid food to see if he'd show an interest.

With a shrug, Bilbo retrieved the gravy boat from the remains of luncheon on the "big table," squatted in front of Norithil again, and gathered up a spoonful of juices. "Here we are, then. Open wide for Uncle Bibbo!"

"Bib-bo, po-ny! Po-ny, Bib-bo!"

"Oh, you want the pony again, do you?" Bilbo gave an exaggerated sigh and galloped the spoon through the air as best he could without sloshing gravy everywhere. "Well, I'll be a wizard's walking stick! He seems to like it!" he exclaimed a minute later. "And I think he wants more! He's reaching for it."

"By all means, then, give it to him." Tauriel was thankful Bilbo was adept at the many ways of preparing meat since she was not. Apparently, she would soon need to learn!

A short while later, she bent over the babe, tickled his ears as elven mothers were wont to do, and swung him into her arms. "We're off to Bell Gamgee's. We'll see you at dinner?"

"I'll be here." Then the hobbit shook Norithil's chubby foot in rhythm with his words. "Yes, Un-cle Bib-bo will be . . . right . . . here!"

The babe rewarded him with a happy giggle.

* * *

The Gamgees' _smial_ was distinctly more humble than Bag End but still respectably appointed, and its mistress spared no expense when serving tea. Upon Tauriel's arrival, the dining table was already set with Bell's best silver and spread with enough scones, sandwiches, and cakes to feed twice the number of guests, which were at present just four, including Tauriel, Peony Burrows, Rose Proudfoot, and Lily Cotton from Bywater but excluding their children, who were expected to entertain themselves whilst the adults socialized.

"My, look how big this one's grown! Seems like only yesterday he was born," clucked Peony, pinching Norithil's cheek. "I'll never forget all of us shivering out back in Cousin Bilbo's garden and repeating all those high-flown phrases, and now he'll be a year old come this first of November!"

"Actually, he'll be two years old tomorrow," Tauriel corrected gently. When the four lady hobbits responded with blank looks, she explained, "We elves count our years not from the date of birth but the date of conception. Today is October the twenty-fourth of 2943, and Norithil was conceived on October the twenty-fifth of 2941."

Rose Proudfoot turned as red as her namesake, and Lily Cotton patted her newborn on the back even though it was she who seemed to be choking. Even Bell and Peony looked aghast, exchanging those glances that Tauriel knew by now meant she'd said or done something shocking. "I'm sorry. Have I said something to disturb you?"

"No no, dearie. Let's all move along to the dining room now, shall we? Wouldn't want the teapot to get cold." Whilst the others filed out, Bell leaned in and lowered her voice as if she and Tauriel were in the middle of the village square instead of her own parlor. "'Tis just that we don't customarily speak of such private matters in public, dear."

"Private matters?" Tauriel whispered back, unsure why she was whispering.

Bell looked round and blushed before clarifying. _"Conception."_

"Oh!" For Silvan Elves, the process was merely a fact of life, like any other. Of course, it would be uncouth to discuss the intimate details of bonding, but the only time the mere mention of the subject had unnerved Tauriel was when referring to it in front of Legolas. But that had everything to do with his confession of love and nothing to do with taboos surrounding the miracle by which the Valar graced an elf with a child. Nevertheless, she was rapidly learning that Elvish tradition was seldom the custom of the country anywhere else, and when in Hobbiton, it was best to do as the hobbits did. "My apologies if I distressed you," she said. "I'll endeavor to remember not to mention the subject in polite company again. However,"—her smile was cordial, but her tone was not to be argued with—"it is still true that Norithil will be two years old tomorrow."

"Well then," said Bell, seemingly satisfied with that compromise, "I s'pose we must celebrate today!"

Sometime later, with the adults seated at the table and the children crowded round it, Bell placed a lemon drizzle cake in front of Norithil, who sat on his mother's lap, and topped it off with two unlit candles. She paused with her match in midair. "What do we say at this part, dear?"

Tauriel raised questioning brows.

"Mustn't we recite something?"

"Oh! No," the Wood Elf chuckled.

"Do we sing then?" asked Peony.

"Not at all. We've no ceremony to mark the gaining of a year as we do for Name-givings."

"You don't sing 'Happy Birthday'?" asked a puzzled Hamson, the eldest Gamgee child.

"Or have cake and make a wish and blow out the candles?" That was Mosco, the elder of the two Burrows brothers.

The elleth indicated that her people did not.

"Well! Then we must give Norithil a proper birthday so he can see what it's all about," Bell declared, and on the count of three, the hobbits began to sing their jolly song.

 _A happy, happy birthday  
Is what we wish for you  
May you know joy and gladness  
To last the whole year through  
May you live long and eat well  
May your friends fore'er be true  
Oh, a happy, happy birthday  
And may e'ry dream come true_

The verse ended with hooting and clapping, and though the younglings had shouted more than they sang, Tauriel was touched by their sincere intent.

"Time to light the candles and make a wish!"

"Yes, a wish!"

"And you've got to close your eyes when you wish and then blow out the candles in one breath! He'll get more candles as he gets older, so it gets harder to do."

As Tauriel listened politely to the younglings' instructions, Bell struck her match and bent forward to light the two candles on the cake. But to the surprise of Norithil's mother, her normally unflappable babe squirmed and fussed so much that she had to apologize and blow out the flames rather unceremoniously for him. When she did, there was another round of clapping, with several of the younglings asking what she'd wished for.

"For pity's sake, don't go asking her that, or the wish won't come true!" Peony scolded.

Tauriel cast her a grateful smile, not because she bought into the hobbits' superstition but because to tell what she'd wished for in that unguarded moment would've been to break her promise to keep Kíli's secret.

Fortunately, the children were soon distracted by slices of lemon drizzle cake, the sweet, sticky pleasure of which Norithil must've remembered from the womb, such was his enthusiasm now for the licking and smearing of frosting. Before long, the last crumbs had been eaten, and their hostess was shooing the little ones into the common room to play.

"I'll look after Norithil!" volunteered Daisy, the youngest Gamgee, eager to exchange her doll for a living babe to mother. With dark blond curls and soft brown eyes, she was the spitting image of Bell.

Tauriel hesitated. The urge to keep her son in the safety of her arms was strong. But she remembered how she had vowed not to smother him when he was born, and she knew it was good for children to interact with one another. "Thank you, Daisy, that's very kind. All right, then," she forced herself to say. "But keep him where I can see him." She lowered Norithil to the floor and watched to be sure the diminutive mum-in-training was gentle as she took the babe's arm and helped him toddle to the center of the common room. "Have you any blocks? He likes to play with blocks."

"We've got heaps of blocks! _Mountains_ of blocks!" cried Daisy's older brother Halfred, who was off running to fetch them before anyone could say Tom Bombadil.

"Blocks? You sure you want them for the babe, love? He's like to swallow them at his age," said a well-meaning Bell.

"Oh, no, he likes to build with them," Tauriel reassured her, omitting that elflings knew better than to eat inedible things so as not to make Bell feel bad if young hobbits weren't so discriminating.

Halfred returned with a crate of wooden blocks, which he dumped on the floor of the common room, and Norithil wasted no time plunking himself down in their midst. Satisfied that he was well occupied, his _nana_ turned back to the table and helped herself to the cucumber salad.

* * *

 _October 24, T.A. 2943—Erebor_

"Lieutenant!" called out Dwalin. Since Gunnir's departure with Dáin, the former master-at-arms had finally been persuaded to sit on the Royal Council as chief of defense.

The lieutenant gave a perfunctory salute. He was red of face and short of breath. "Sir, I regret to report a riot's broken out in a crowd of five, maybe six hundred in Thorin's Square, sir!"

A lightning-swift glance passed between Kíli and Dwalin. _Riots!_ The very nightmare Kíli had prayed would not become their dark reality.

"Colonel Annar has deployed his regiment and awaits your command, sir."

Dwalin was already out of his seat and moving toward the door. "Stabilize the site by whatever means necess'ry, but draw weapons only at last resort. D'ya understand, Lieutenant? Weapons _only at last resort_." For a moment, his grim military mask slipped, and his true powerlessness was evident as he cried, "Mahal forbid we should butcher our own people!" But then the moment passed, and he was the undauntable General Dwalin again, impatiently ordering the hapless lieutenant to "stop standin' there like ye're turnin' back to stone and _move out_ afore I give ye privy duty fer the next ten years! _Go!_ I'm right behind ya."

"Wait!" Heads turned in the other direction as the king, too, stood from his seat at the head of the table. "Who do the rioters call for?" The lieutenant shifted uncomfortably and looked at his feet, so Kíli softened his tone. "It's all right, soldier. You can answer the question."

"They call for Lord Dáin, sire."

Kíli didn't flinch, for he had surmised as much. Hadn't Young Thorin warned him that not all dissenters would leave Erebor of their own accord? Some had stayed, and as isolationist economics and increased defense spending drained their pockets, their discontent had spread. But the irony was that while they thought they wanted Dáin, it was Dáin's policies that were ruining them! The Ironfoot's approach worked adequately for his small, secluded territory in the Far East, but the Lonely Mountain was a much larger, more populous, and more politically prominent kingdom, and its needs were different than those of the Iron Hills. Kíli understood that now.

And then, in the same sort of flash in which he'd understood that the only way to be rid of the would-be assassins was to banish Dáin's entire family, he also understood what he must do to stop the riots and restore prosperity to Erebor: He must break with Dáin's policy, as well. And to do that, he must do the very thing that would endanger himself most because what was good for the people must become good for the king. He must embrace their well-being at whatever cost to his own.

"Thank you, soldier," Kíli said to the lieutenant. "You may go." Dwalin made to follow, but Kíli stopped him as well. "I'm going with you."

"No! Kíli!" Forgetting formalities, Dís shot up from her chair.

"Yer Majesty?" Dwalin questioned as if he hadn't heard correctly.

"I must speak to the people. I must tell them that, after today, everything will be different. What they journeyed miles to find in Erebor will be theirs. From this day forward, what's good for them will be good for their king."

"Sire, I do not know how you propose to accomplish this, but perhaps if we discuss it here in session and draw up a proclamation—"

"No, Master Balin. I must tell them face to face so they can see I am sincere. That I am not just their king but one of them."

 _"Lu!"_ Dís grabbed her son's arm. "You mustn't go down there into that madness and mayhem! There's no telling what will happen to you if you do!"

"And there's no telling what will happen to Erebor if I don't." He clasped her hand before gently disengaging it, then took her by the shoulders and kissed her forehead. "I love you, _'Amad_."

"Kíli, no—!"

Kíli gave a curt nod to Dwalin and exited close on the general's heels, leaving Balin to physically restrain the princess."The lad is king now. We must let him make his own decisions and trust Mahal to guide them," the chief advisor said in the most soothing voice he could muster even as Dís gave in to tears.

* * *

"May I speak freely, Yer Majesty?"

"Always, General Dwalin."

"I'm not seein' how you tryin'a talk sense ta a mob bent on a senseless act is gonna do anybody any good. Ye've never seen riots, but I have. When a spirit o' madness gits inta a crowd, it spreads like a ragin' wildfire. Ye can't _talk_ ta a wildfire."

Kíli set his jaw. "I'm not going to try to bring them to their senses; I'm going to try to show them I've come to my own."

They swept into the nearest lift, and Kíli yanked the lever all the way down, but Dwalin reached out and covered the young ruler's hand. When Kíli looked at him questioningly, Dwalin said, "Not Level One. That'll take ye right into the thick of it. There be a balcony on Level Three that overlooks the square. If ye want a fightin' chance o' bein' heard, that's where to go." Kíli swallowed once, nodded, and shifted the lever up.

Well before the lift reached its destination, a dull roar rose up to meet the occupants. Kíli and Dwalin locked eyes. Neither had heard a cacophony like that in years—not since the Battle of Five.

"I want ye to know I think ye're a damn fool fer doin' this," Dwalin said. "But I admire ye fer it anyhow."

Kíli grinned almost slyly, as if they were back in the Ered Luin and Dwalin was letting him and Fí get away with one of their pranks again. "Thank you, General Dwalin." Then he sobered, knowing this could be his last chance to express his gratitude. "For everything."

Dwalin clapped his young cousin's shoulder. "Ye can thank me later over a good ale."

"That I will," Kíli said even though they both knew there was a possibility he wouldn't.

Then the lift thudded to a halt. With a last nod at Dwalin, Kíli shoved open the gate, and they ran toward the roar.

* * *

 _October 24, T.A. 2943—Hobbiton_

"Mistress Tauriel, may I ask . . . is it the fashion for lady elves to wear trousers?"

"They're called _leggings_ , Lily." Peony rolled her eyes in embarrassment at her friend's ignorance, apparently having forgotten that she herself had asked the same question a year ago. But Lily Cotton was blushing profusely, and anyone could see it had taken some courage for her to voice her curiosity.

"Leggings are worn by those of both sexes in the guard or in other positions in which freedom of movement is required," the Wood Elf explained patiently.

"They look so very comfortable! Are they?"

"To me they are."

"Oh, I should so like not to have a skirt to hitch up all the time when washing the laundry!" sighed Rose Proudfoot.

"Or chasing the chickens," said Lily, who was a farmer's wife.

"Or bathing the younglings," said Peony.

"Or riding into town."

And so they went back and forth like this, naming circumstances in which skirts were a nuisance until Tauriel said, "I could teach you how to sew leggings. It isn't hard."

There was a moment of silence as the lady hobbits exchanged glances before Peony said, "But it isn't the thing for a lady to wear them among our folk. It just isn't done."

"Well, I myself don't much care what is or isn't done in the village," Lily ventured. "Weeks can pass on the farm with nary a visitor to see whether I'm wearing a skirt or a sackcloth! I'd just as soon be comfortable."

Tauriel nodded at her. "Then I'll show you how to make the pattern before we leave today."

Lily beamed. "Oh, thank you ever so much, Mistress Tauriel!"

"After birthing three children, I couldn't squeeze these hips into leggings if I wanted to," Bell complained cheerfully as she poured everyone a second round of tea.

"Well, Tauriel here doesn't have to worry on that score. She's as lean and lithe as a slip of a girl," Peony teased.

"'Tis true, Mistress Tauriel. I've never seen anyone recover her figure as soon after birthing as you did! My middle's looked and felt like one of them roly-polys since my first was born." Rose nodded toward the jam-filled suet pudding in the middle of the table.

"And my bosoms might as well be pancakes since my last," Peony moaned. "Just you wait, Lily Cotton,"—for Lily had stifled a giggle—"till you've finished nursing Tom Junior there. Flat as pancakes! You'll see." Then she turned her attention to Tauriel. "Is Norithil full weaned yet? He seemed to enjoy the cake."

"He eats many solid foods now."

Lily raised pointed brows at Tauriel. "No pancakes there," she said to Peony.

The elf maid felt her ears grow hot and was relieved when Bell came to her rescue, saying, "Right, that's enough of that. Can't you see you're embarrassing her? It's no wonder she looks as she does; elves don't age and recover their health with great speed. Now, who wants the strawberry jam, and who will have the blueberry?"

But, in truth, Tauriel wasn't embarrassed by the frank scrutiny of her shape as much as she was by the fact that she had _not_ recovered her health at great speed, despite her outward appearance to the contrary. Many nights she went to bed with back aching and feet sore from the chores of the day, and she often slept as long and as deep as any mortal. Oh, how she wished Glaewen were here to consult about these strange changes! But after Legolas had termed the healer a "poor liar" and so readily discerned Tauriel's whereabouts, the Woodland exile thought it best not to contact her friend again anytime soon.

"Mistress Tauriel!"

The redhead looked up to see Daisy standing in the doorway. "Is everything all right?" She knew it was. Although she had only a partial view of the common room from her seat, Tauriel could easily hear Norithil's contented burbling as he played with the other children. Still, something in Daisy's tone and expression seemed urgent.

"We've something to show you! Come quick and see!"

"The grown-ups are taking their tea, love. Now's not the time," Bell admonished her daughter.

"Please, Mistress Tauriel? We won't be long. Come quick and see! Please?"

"Daisy, what did I just say—?"

"It's all right." Tauriel put down her napkin and stood up. "I'll just be a moment."

* * *

 _October 24, T.A. 2943—Erebor_

The roar was deafening by the time the public square came into view.

 _Thorin's Square._ How ironic that this gathering place, named after Uncle, was now overrun with those who would depose his heir!

Kíli raced through the gallery that overlooked the square with Dwalin on his heels, stopping momentarily to assess the crowd. The general swore under his breath. "Five or six hundred? There's gotta be near a thousand down there!"

Kíli didn't know how he could count individual bodies in the masses that writhed like clashing dragons. They didn't even seem to have a uniform purpose, fighting one another as fiercely as they fought the soldiers who were attempting to gain control of the chaos. Some were chanting, trying to rally those around them, whilst others attacked anything and anyone they could get their hands on. Many others, no doubt innocent bystanders when the rioting broke out, were just trying to extricate themselves from the tumult. Here and there fires burned, and Kíli could smell the stench of smoke and blood that always accompanied war.

 _Civil war._

He felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. He'd done everything in his power to prevent it, but here it was anyway! Now his only hope was to put an end to it before it got any worse.

The stairs to the balcony were dead ahead.

Just then, two rabble-rousers who'd wandered away from the rest, obviously intoxicated, wheeled toward them swinging pickaxes. With a nimble turn, Kíli dodged beneath one axe, jumped the other, and kept running, hearing a _crack_ behind him as Dwalin knocked their heads together and left them on the ground in a stupor.

Just as Kíli reached the foot of the staircase, Dwalin prodded his shoulder. "Go on up," he said. "I got ye covered." With a single, grateful nod, Kíli turned and took the stairs two at a time.

The young monarch stood on the balcony, high above the throng, hands braced on the stone balustrade. No one was watching him. They were too caught up in the pushing and shoving and chanting of "We want King Dáin! We want King Dáin!" He glanced back at Dwalin, who nodded encouragingly from his post at the bottom of the steps. Then he cleared his throat and bellowed at the top of his lungs, "Good Dwarves of Erebor!"

He might as well have been shouting into the wind in a blizzard. No one paid the slightest attention.

In frustration, Dwalin cast about and spied a troop of soldiers jogging toward him. Their commanding officer saluted, and the general nodded acknowledgement. Then, as the soldiers blurred past, Dwalin reached out and plucked a battle horn off the trumpeter's hip. When the indignant warrior rounded on him, the chief of defense said, "Aye, yer humble horn's been donated to a greater purpose. Ye'll git another on the morrow. Now keep movin', soldier! That's an order from yer gen'ral!"

The King of Erebor was preparing to throw himself into the mob if that was the only way they'd listen to him when Dwalin handed him the horn. "Here. This'll git their attention," the tattooed warrior said. Kíli had never learned to play a battle horn. He was only thankful this one wasn't even a quarter as big as Bombur's, or else he wasn't sure he could've gotten a note out of it. But he was willing to try anything, so he took a deep breath, pressed his lips against the mouthpiece, and exhaled as forcefully as he could.

The horn sputtered like a dying animal.

"Try it agin," Dwalin urged.

On the third try, the small horn produced an amazingly big sound.

There was an ebb in the clamor. Heads turned, and then more as people began to point at the crowned figure in his regal, fur-lined robe. Many of them, Kíli knew, had never actually seen him before or only from afar. The roar of the crowd was now some decibels lower than it had been, but angry shouts and jeers rose from various corners, and Kíli knew he'd only a few moments to hold the attention of the masses once gained. One word misspoken and it would be all over for him in their eyes.

"Good Dwarves of Erebor," the King under the Mountain began, pushing his voice to its limit, "I come to you today not as your king but as a fellow citizen of this city—"

A low rumble started up, a groaning sound. Was he losing their attention already?

"This city which once was great and will be great again—"

The rumble was getting louder.

* * *

 _October 24, T.A. 2943—Hobbiton_

"Oh, gracious!" Bell exclaimed when she entered the common room on Tauriel's heels. "What're you children getting up to in here? Hammy, did you do this?"

She was staring at an elaborate block fortress in the middle of the common room. It wasn't merely some stacked walls or towers but an entire city with inner apartments, halls, and squares, plus walkways and bridges crossing over and between them.

"No, Mum. We're just playing Crazy Eights," Hamson shrugged, and the other children playing cards with him shrugged and nodded too.

"Norithil built it!" Daisy announced proudly.

"What, the babe? Now listen here, missy. I won't have you telling tales in this _smial_ —" Bell began.

"She's not telling tales, Mum. The little fellow put that thing together himself. I saw him," said Hamson.

"Well, I never . . . !" exclaimed Peony, who had trailed into the common room along with the other two lady hobbits.

Everyone was shocked except Tauriel. Although this was the largest and most intricate block construction she'd seen Norithil create, it was by no means the first, nor was it highly unusual for an elfling of his age to engage in creative projects, although painting and playing instruments were generally favored over building block cities. She often spent half an hour taking apart his designs after he was finished playing.

But this time, even as everyone else marveled at the structure, Norithil swiped an arm across the highest tower, setting off a chain reaction that collapsed half his work in a clatter. Now Tauriel _was_ surprised, for she'd never seen her son destroy his own creation. When he peered up at her, his mountain green eyes were big and sad. _"Dad!"_ he cried in Sindarin.

"What did he say?" asked Peony.

"Poor love! Is he calling for his papa?" asked Bell.

Tauriel felt a rush of weakness, and suddenly she was light-headed, short of breath. "'Down.' He said 'down.' Oh, I think I need to sit," she said, for the room had begun to spin.

* * *

 _October 24, T.A. 2943—Erebor_

The rumble of discontent grew.

But too late Kíli realized it didn't issue from the rioters. It arose from the mountain itself, a protest from the depths of the earth. Since his coronation, he had ever feared the Lonely Mountain would judge his fitness to rule and find him wanting, and now it seemed it had finally lost patience with him.

Kíli should've been afraid, but there was no time for fear. The mountain was already shrugging its shoulders, shedding the weight of him, the stone beneath his feet heaving him off . . .

"That balcony ain't stable," Dwalin whispered to himself from the foot of the stairs. And then he shouted, "Kíli! Kíli, git down from there!" He dashed forward, but even as he did, there was a terrible rumbling.

The next instant, the balcony swayed and crumbled, and the chief of defense stood on a staircase to nowhere, gazing down at clouds of dust that wafted up from the rubble below, his king and cousin vanished from sight.

* * *

lu—no

A/N: Before anyone gets upset, the answer is NO, Kíli is NOT dead! And, believe it or not, we've now seen the last of the civil unrest in Erebor! How Kíli will pull that off is the subject of the next chapter. ;)

Please note that the ages of the "lady hobbits" and hobbit children who appear in this fic have been changed. The lady hobbits are quite a bit younger in Tolkien's timeline, and the children mentioned would not have been born yet. I changed their ages to give Tauriel and Norithil some peers whose names you might recognize.

Up next—Kíli makes a bold move to save Erebor from ruin . . . and he and Tauriel "meet" again in a very "real" dream!


	24. Chapter 24 - A Close Escape

A/N: Thank you, as always, to everyone who left a review last week for taking a few minutes of your time to do that! It may seem like a small thing, but it's always appreciated since it's my only way of really knowing that there are people out there who enjoy this fic. ;) Thank you also if you added this story to your follows or favorites since the last update—I'm glad to have you aboard!

Many thanks to Moonraykir for her awesome editorial suggestions and for educating me about the treatment of certain injuries! :)

In my end note to Chap. 23, I indicated that Kili would "make a bold move to save Erebor from ruin" in Chap. 24. Well, after adding a few scenes to this chapter, I had to bump his "bold move" to Chap. 25. (This is a WIP, so sometimes things like that happen.) But the good news is that I'm halfway through Chap. 25 already, so it should be ready next weekend! In the meantime, I hope you'll enjoy Chap. 24 and its expanded scenes, including the Kili/Tauriel "dream" scene. (Or _is_ it a dream?) :)

Guest 10/22: Yes, I sometimes feel like I'm on an emotional roller coaster ride with it myself! Very glad to hear you're excited for more, and thanks for reading and reviewing! :)

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 24**

 **A Close Escape  
**

* * *

 _October 24, T.A. 2943—Hobbiton_

"Tauriel? Are you all right, love?"

"Can we get you anything?"

"A glass of water, dear? Or the smelling salts?"

"No, thank you, I'm fine," said the elf who was most certainly not fine as she sat doubled over in the chair into which she'd collapsed, holding her head in her hand. A minute ago, she'd felt as if her _fëa_ were trying to separate from her _hröa_ , a terrifying experience she'd known only once before, when Kíli had died before her eyes.

 _Had something horrible just happened to her_ _ **meleth e-guilen**_ _?_

But her panic faded when she realized that Kíli could not have died a second time, for his first death had been accompanied by a sensation of being violently ripped apart, and she did not feel that now. What she felt was dizziness, as if her body had loosened its hold on her spirit momentarily. However, as her breathing resumed its normal pace, the dizziness subsided, and she felt her essence settle once more within her core.

None of these were things she could explain to the lady hobbits who hovered over her, eyes wide with concern.

 _"Na-na?"_

Tauriel felt a little pat on her leg and looked down into Norithil's questioning face. "Yes, my love, it's all right," she said in Sindarin and gathered him into her arms, then stood slowly and carefully, one hand on the back of the chair for support.

"Perhaps you shouldn't walk yet, dear."

"Yes, why don't you sit awhile longer?"

"And have another cup of tea?"

"No, I'm all right. But I think perhaps we should be leaving. We've had quite a lot of excitement for one day. Thank you so much for having us over, Bell, and for the cake and the singing and the candles . . . It was all such a pleasure for the both of us!"

"Of course, love. We were only too glad to give Norithil a proper birthday party. You will come again, won't you?" Bell looked anxious, as though she feared she were in some way to blame for how the party had ended.

"We will most definitely come again," Tauriel reassured her with a warm smile. "After all, I must make good on my promise to show everyone how to sew leggings!"

After bidding Peony and the other lady hobbits farewell, Tauriel made her way back to Bag End, strolling instead of assuming her customary brisk pace. Along the way, she pondered the odd dizzy spell. Maybe it hadn't anything to do with Kíli at all, she thought. Valinor knew she wasn't herself since the birth! Still, as she walked, she breathed a quick Elvish prayer for her love, just in case he should have need of it.

* * *

 _October 24, T.A. 2943—Erebor_

Kíli gasped, inhaled only dust, and coughed violently. Or would've if he'd been able to expand his ribs enough to cough. But when he tried, the pain was almost as intense as when he'd died.

 ** _Was_** _he dead?_

He didn't think so. Death had been a place of darkness, silence, stillness. This place was dark but not silent or still. Voices rose and fell from a long way off, urgent but indistinct, and there was movement around him, the shifting of stone.

Something warm and wet oozed into his left eye, although it hardly mattered since it was too pitch black to see, even for a dwarf who, like all of his kind, had good vision in low light. Listening to the far-off voices, Kíli bellowed as loudly as the crushing weight on his ribs would allow, but the voices came no closer, and after a few minutes, he realized he might as well save his breath.

Oh, _Mahal_ , the pressure was unbearable! His stone-sense told him there was granite above him . . .

And granite and granite and granite and granite . . .

 _By the hammer and anvil, where in Arda was the end of it?_

Kíli inhaled again, but this time crumbled granite fell into his mouth, and he gagged, choking. _Buried alive!_ He had to get out of here before he was buried alive!

One of his arms was pinned beneath his body, useless. The other lay across his chest, pinned by what he could sense was a large, solid chunk of stone. It was probably too heavy to push off himself, especially with one arm, but all he could do was try. At this point, he had nothing to lose.

Trying not to breathe too deeply in the dusty air, Kíli got a grip on the stone slab with his free hand. To his amazement, it rocked slightly. He braced himself for a rush of falling rubble, for if the granite were truly solid, it should not have moved with that slight pressure. However, a few moments later, there was no further movement, so he pushed again, harder this time. He could feel that the slab ran the length of his body, so he used his legs, too.

Mahal, it was heavier than the Gate of Erebor! He grunted and grimaced, and his arm trembled with the strain.

But, inch by inch, little by little, the stone was shifting.

Kíli paused to rest, then clenched his teeth and pushed again. With a rumble, the stone shifted further, this time a significant shift that he could both hear and feel against his body. A rush of elation spurred him on, but too late the trapped dwarven king became aware that the shift had created fissures through which a waterfall of granite dust was pouring.

 _What, was the whole bloody mountain falling down on him now?_

Kíli turned his head to the side, but the steady stream was unavoidable. It tasted like ash and burnt his throat, but it felt far worse in his lungs. He coughed and sputtered, sputtered and coughed, convulsing at the pain but desperate for a full breath of clean air. Yet the more he resisted, the more the foul debris filled his nose and mouth. Somehow, even though it was too dark to see, he knew his vision was clouding.

 _Damn it all to Morgoth!_ After surviving trolls, goblins, wargs, orcs, a poisoned arrow, a dragon, a five-army battle, and three assassination attempts, he couldn't die like this, crushed by the very substance from which he was made!

He had to keep the promise he was about to make to the city.

 _He had to keep his promise to Tauriel._

Kíli groaned and gave a great heave with all his strength.

* * *

"Gen'ral?"

Dwalin tossed a hunk of granite aside, wiped an arm across his sweat-drenched brow, and nodded at Colonel Annar. He knew he was supposed to be pacing to and fro, issuing orders as befitted his station. But it was _Kíli_ down there under that blasted pile of rubble! He had to get his hands down in it, had to keep one stone moving after the next, had to know he'd done all he could till the moment they pulled the lad out.

"Aye, Colonel, any sign?"

"Only this, sir." Annar held out a piece of teal velvet undoubtedly torn from Kíli's robe, and Dwalin fingered it as if it contained hidden runes, a map to his young cousin's location. "But I've got a whole troop coverin' the area where it was found with a fine-toothed comb, sir."

Dwalin gave a curt nod. "Very good, Colonel. Report back immediately at the first sign of—"

 _Life,_ he'd almost said. _At the first sign of life._ That was what he _wanted_ to say, but as the colonel blinked at him expectantly, Dwalin couldn't spit the word out. It sat there on his tongue, a sad, foolish thing. When he looked round at what he'd done his best to ignore whilst up to his elbows in wreckage—the dwindling troops, the slowing footsteps and shaking heads of those who remained—the veteran warrior knew that whatever he might've hoped in his heart, he couldn't pretend to anyone else that this was a rescue when it had clearly become a recovery.

 _Blast it to Mordor!_ If only he hadn't encouraged the lad to get up on that damned balcony! He'd never forgive himself for that. And now the youthful archer he'd trained up from a dwarfling would never get a chance to grow into the accomplished leader Dwalin knew he could've become.

The general swallowed an inconvenient lump in his throat. He had to get back to work, had to keep moving. Had to make sure there was no time to dwell on the mischievous spark in the eye of a dwarfling as he outmaneuvered his much older sparring partner. Or the courage on the countenance of a king as he prepared to face down a mob. Or the fact that the senior line of Durin was lost and what that would mean for the future of the Khazad.

Just then, a pair of soldiers standing on a fallen granite column began to shout, and Dwalin saw the column shiver beneath their feet. He knew piles of debris like this were unsteady and prone to further collapse, which could be dangerous to first responders. "Colonel," he barked, "git your soldiers off o' that column! Now!" The search party had barely jumped aside when the column heaved and rolled away, sending up a billow of dust.

 _"Great Mahal . . . "_ Dwalin whispered, squinting as the dust settled. Surely his tired eyes were playing tricks on him! It wasn't possible. It couldn't be! He couldn't let his heart overrule his head and show him foolish visions.

But other soldiers were running forward now, sending up a great commotion, and as he elbowed past them, there it was, plain as the beard on his face—a hand reaching up where the column had been.

 _"Kíli!"_

The King of Erebor was splayed on his back, covered head to toe in dust, and a deep gash at his left temple was bleeding profusely.

But he was _alive_!

Dwalin reached down and seized the outstretched hand. "Don't ye worry now, I've got ya! And I'm not lettin' ya go!"

"Dwalin . . . " Kíli gasped before his eyes drifted closed and his body went limp.

* * *

 _Darkness._

 _Silence._

 _Stillness._

But even deprived of sight and sound, he felt a feather-soft touch upon his brow and instinctively turned his head into the curve of that cool, smooth palm.

Did she wear a fragrance?

Nay. It was the scent of her skin, that lush, _green_ scent he remembered as if it were only yesterday he'd buried his face in her neck and filled his nose with it. There was no such scent within the mountain, and just as well, for if there had been, it would've shot his heart through with longing for her every time he detected it.

"Kíli . . . "

"Mmm, Tauriel," he murmured, somewhere between a sigh of pleasure and a groan of relief. To his own ears, his voice sounded scratchy and unused.

"Kíli, open your eyes."

His eyelids felt so heavy, as if weighed down by stone, but he did his best to obey and was rewarded with a vision almost too beautiful to be believed. She was just as he remembered: ruby tresses afire in the lamplight as if backlit by the sun, eyes as radiant as the most flawlessly cut emeralds, cheekbones sculpted high and proud, and wide mouth slightly upturned in that smile of hers that hinted at some private amusement.

"Tauriel . . . can it really be you?" He swallowed thickly. "Are you really here with me?"

"I am always here with you."

"Wait . . . no." Kíli frowned and struggled to sit up despite the pain that gripped his side. Apparently he was shirtless but with something uncomfortable wrapped tightly around his trunk. "No, you shouldn't be here! It's not . . . it's not safe for you . . . " A wave of dizziness threatened to overcome him.

"You're one to talk of safety! 'Tis not I who lies abed with my head and ribs in bandages," Tauriel observed, slipping an arm about his bare shoulders to help prop him against the pillows.

As she said it, he felt the insistent throb at his left temple. _Durin's beard!_ That hurt like a crew of bloody miners drilling his skull! Nevertheless, he fought through it to warn her, for her well-being was more important to him than his own. "Tauriel, you don't understand. You . . . must flee this pit of death and destruction . . . whilst you still can." He coughed, wheezing painfully. "I can't . . . protect you . . . like this . . . "

"Do I look as though I need protecting?" the former captain said with an arched brow as she reached for a glass of water on the night table. Kíli leaned forward gratefully, and she held it to his lips, placing a supportive hand behind his neck. "Hush now," she said when he was finished drinking. "You must be still and rest." She eased him back against the pillows and brushed away damp tendrils of hair that clung to his forehead. "I am perfectly safe where I am. We both are."

 _They were both safe?_ How could she say that when she sat beside the number one target in Erebor? Or was she talking of some other place, some other _we_? But that made no sense . . .

"Now let me see to these bandages."

Kíli's previous thought trailed away in a cloud of pain and then dissolved under the gentle ministrations of elven hands. Through bleary eyes, he saw Tauriel wince when she unfurled the last of the dressings round his brow.

"That's quite the nasty bruise! Did you try to head-ram Dwalin in a skirmish?"

Kíli couldn't help snorting at her humor. But then he sobered as he remembered the rumbling walls, the shaking ground. "The mountain judged me and found me wanting."

"Oh?" Tauriel looked unperturbed. "Then why, pray tell, did it let you live?" When the young king's eyes widened and he frowned up at her, she said, "Do not tell me a mount the size of Erebor could not have crushed you if it truly wished."

While his elven nurse applied a salve to his head wound, the injured dwarf considered this and couldn't deny that her logic was sound. But if the mountain hadn't rejected him, then what in actuality had happened? Another assassination attempt? "The people do not want me. They want Dáin," he said.

"The people want the Heir of Durin. You just need to show them that you are he." She favored him with a curve of the lips that managed to be both innocent and knowing.

 _If only it were that simple!_ "I swear to Mahal, lass, I would if I could, but I do not know how," he hissed through a new wave of pain, then seized the hand that dabbed at his hairline. Her eyes rounded at the intensity in his own, and she stilled. "These two years past, I've done everything in my power to protect them. To protect _you_. And I've thought of . . . nothing else. Nothing but"—he winced sharply and panted—"making this city a place that Durin's Folk would be proud to call home and that _you_ would be proud to call your kingdom as you ruled by my side—"

He broke off. What use was there in explaining? How could he expect her to understand when he'd sent her away from Erebor?

Then Tauriel did something that astonished him. She took the hand that gripped hers and held it to her breast, directly over her heart. "I know."

Kíli's eyes flicked back and forth, studying her face. "Do you?" he asked in wonder. "Tauriel, I never wanted to send you away, I never wanted anyone else. I—"

"Shhh. I know," she repeated.

For a long moment, he gloried in just feeling the pressure of her hand in his, gazing up into those bright twin stars that were the only worlds in which he wanted to live. _She knew!_ He need explain nothing further to her because she knew and she understood, and perhaps she could still love him!

The salve was doing its work now, easing the pain, and this time he let her dress his head afresh. The motion brought him back to their greater reality, and he said hoarsely, "But all has been in vain. Our coffers dwindle, the city crumbles, and the people are convinced only Dáin can restore us."

"Is that true?"

"I do not believe so. It was following Dáin's policies that got us into this damnable mess. And now I cannot get us out of it!"

"Sit up and lift your arms a little," Tauriel instructed and began to loosen the binding about his ribs. Her arms weaved in and out under his own, and Kíli thought if she just leaned a hair's breadth farther forward, it would be into his embrace. But she did not. However, as soon as he was naked to the waist, she started to work a pleasantly scented, tingly balm into his side, her fingers swirling icy trails across his heated skin. As she concentrated, he sometimes felt the caress of her breath on his neck or shoulder.

Kíli knew already that his modest elf maid didn't much like to be stared at, but with her attention diverted, he studied the minutia of her face in the glow of the lamplight—the uniquely elven angle of her eyebrows, which were darker than her hair, a fine line by the corner of her mouth (how many centuries, he wondered, had it taken her to develop that line?), a slight unevenness about her chin, endearing for its imperfection—and felt it somehow more intimate now even than when he'd made love to her.

Just then, his eyes fluttered closed, and a soft moan escaped him, though it wasn't one of pain. He almost chuckled, wondering if it was appropriate for him to be enjoying medical attention this much, but the movement hurt, and she _tsked_ at him until he was motionless again. After that, she didn't say anything until she was wrapping his ribs once more, and even then she said it quietly, as though she too were loathe to intrude on the comfortable silence that had fallen between them.

"When you were injured, you were about to speak to the people of a new direction, were you not?"

"Aye, and look where it got me," Kíli said ruefully.

"Is it so bad lying there whilst I tend you?"

The redhead's expression was stern, but her tone was teasing, which brought a smile to her patient's face.

"You know that was not what I meant. I would dive off a balcony every week if it would bring you back to me for but a little while."

"I should hope not! Then we must waste our brief time together with you upon your sickbed."

She was still teasing as she tied off the last bandage and helped him lie down, but he was entirely serious. "I once promised you I would come back to you, no matter what, and I shall," the young monarch grated as fiercely as he could while helplessly flat on his back.

"And we shall be waiting for you," Tauriel replied, equally serious.

 _We?_ Now Kíli was sure she wasn't including him in that _we_. So what _we_ did she mean?

Before he could contemplate this further, she continued, "You must finish what you started. You could not speak to your people, but now you can _do_ for them what you would've said. Lead them in that new direction by example. The mountain has given you a second chance to do it."

Kíli took a long, slow breath, for now that she'd finished wrapping him up, the binding supported without restricting him, and he could breathe freely and painlessly. As Tauriel smiled down at him, so wise and so insightful, he felt his heart melt in the fire of his love for her. "I _will_ do it. But not only for the mountain. Also for you. _Always_ for you. And you will make every risk worth it _, amrâlimê_."

Then something troubling furrowed his brow.

" _Amrâlimê_ ," he repeated. "I never got to tell you . . . what it means . . . "

She leaned over him then, and he threaded his fingers through the hair that cascaded around him. "I think I know . . . _meleth nín_ ," she breathed. Her lips hovered over his, and he strained upward to meet them, sighing into her mouth when finally she granted him the fullness of that pleasure. He was thirsty, so thirsty, and she was the only pure forest spring that could satisfy. So he drank her in until the moment she lifted her head and, with her lips still poised inches from his, whispered, "Open your eyes, Kíli."

And he did.

* * *

A/N: To avoid backlash next time, I feel compelled to give you guys a MILD SPOILER: Kili _is_ unconscious during this last scene. Tauriel is _not_ physically present when he wakes. However, he wasn't "just" dreaming, either, which we'll find out more about next time. Kili will also make that "bold move to save Erebor from ruin" that I couldn't fit into this chapter. Chap. 25 is halfway done, so it should be posted next weekend! :)


	25. Chapter 25 - A New Direction

A/N: Ok, so I said I'd have this chapter up over the weekend, and I didn't. I'm a very bad Elf Girl! :( But it's a long one to make up for it, and now you get something to enjoy at bedtime after your first day back to work/school. :) Thanks very much to those of you who left reviews last time, and if you're just now joining us and added this fic to your follows or favorites this past week, then _mae tollen_! (If you don't know your Sindarin, I'll let you look that one up. ;))

Extra special thanks to Moonraykir, who kindly rushed to have a look at this chapter even though I didn't leave her much time. I was too eager to update to give her a second pass at it after my first set of revisions, so if anything is confusing, it's not her fault! (Credit also goes to her for the idea that dwarves in their aristocratic society would see voting as slumming it. I stole that from her excellent fic "So Comes Snow After Fire." And I did it shamelessly.)

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 25**

 **A New Direction**

* * *

 _February 1, T.A. 2944—Hobbiton_

Tauriel opened her eyes and blinked at the familiar blue and yellow surroundings of her bedchamber in Bag End. She'd half expected to see intricately carved stone, and her heart sank when she did not.

 _What a strange dream!_ How real it had seemed! She touched her lips, which felt swollen as if from a long, passionate kiss.

But of course it was not real. It was just a fantasy, born of her own heartache, that Kíli had not wanted to send her away and longed for her return to the Lonely Mountain. She was finally managing not to think of him consciously every day, so at night she thought of him in dreams, that was all.

How very odd, though, that she'd dreamt he was injured in an uprising and that she'd advised him as she had! Yet, if the circumstances of the dream had been real, she supposed she would've recommended precisely the same course of action.

In the guest chamber opposite, which had since become the nursery, she heard Norithil stirring, and the _clink_ of silverware and copper pots told her that Bilbo was preparing breakfast in the kitchen. Still, she huddled in bed, loathe to shake off the afterglow of such a beautiful vision. Though she knew it was foolish, she allowed herself to indulge in the memory of Kíli's sweet, soft lips, such a contrast with the body she knew was granite-hard, the liquid brown eyes brimming with all the emotion she had ever wished to see, the crack in his voice when he'd called her his love, for she'd long since guessed that was what the exotic, rolling _"amrâlimê"_ meant.

The Kíli of her dream had wanted to make her proud. He'd wanted to protect her from . . .

 _From what?_

He hadn't said. In the dream, somehow she'd known what he meant, and both the cause of his distress and its solution had been perfectly clear. But here, in the cold light of morning, she was left with a jumble of incoherent thoughts signifying nothing.

Norithil was babbling to himself now. Time for her to get out of bed and begin the day.

For half a minute more, Tauriel lingered on the memory of that kiss, Kíli arching to meet her lips with his, the grateful sigh that escaped him when her mouth opened and the gentle tug of his hand in her hair. Her body responded, a slow fire sliding through her veins. "Oh, _meleth nín_ ," she whispered into the empty room.

 _Amrâlimê_ , she imagined him whisper in return and, for a split second, thought she felt his sigh tickle the fine wisps at her hairline.

Then she pulled back the bedcovers, stopped fancying herself as Kíli's love, and got on with being Norithil's mum and Bilbo's friend.

* * *

 _"Amrâlimê,"_ Kíli sighed. He opened his eyes and blinked at the familiar face of . . . Ori.

 _Where was Tauriel?_

A dream. She'd been nothing but a dream. It wasn't real.

Kíli's heart sank, and heat suffused his cheeks when he realized how he'd just addressed his cousin. He loved Ori, of course, but not _that_ way.

To Kíli's relief, however, Ori seemed not to have noticed the term of endearment in his excitement about . . . something. "Kíli? Oh, Kí, _Kí_! I _told_ them you'd come round!" The young scribe uttered a Khuzdul expression of joy whose Westron translation was something silly like "grow me an everlasting beard from here to eternity" and called out, "My lady, Master Óin, he's awake! Kíli's awake!"

Ori needn't have told them, for they were already there.

"If ye please, Princess, don't go smoth'ring His Highness to death afore I've a chance to be sure he'll live," Óin grumbled, though it was obvious he was nearly as delighted as she, albeit less free with the kisses and caresses. And then to the page who'd entered on their heels and now stood rooted to the spot: "Run along now, lad, and fetch Master Balin!"

Instead, the page dropped to his knees and prostrated himself, forehead to the ground. _"_ _'Uhdad! Ablâkhul, Akrâzul, Binamrâd!_ _"_ he cried.

Frowning, Kíli hoisted himself onto his elbows and squinted at the lad. "What's this?"

Ori's eyes skated between Kíli and the page, Dís smiled regally and lifted her chin, and Óin had trouble looking at anyone as he muttered, "Save it fer later, lad. Off with ye now."

When the page raised his head, trembling, but made no move to leave, Ori regained his nerve and, in a voice firmer than Kíli was accustomed to, said, "You heard Master Óin. Go now!"

The page got to his feet, shaking, backed out of the chamber, and with a last tremulous glance at the young king, took off running, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

"What was he on about?" Kíli understood the lad's words, but they might as well have meant "Greatest Coal Lump! The Black, the Sooty, the Lumpiest!" for all the sense they made to him. The sinking sensation in his heart that he'd felt on waking had moved down to his stomach, but he didn't know why. Otherwise he felt fine.

 _Why was he in bed?_

"Beggin' yer pardon, but ye'll have to speak up, sire," Óin said, raising his ear trumpet.

Ori looked from Kíli to Dís as if seeking her permission to speak. "There was . . . an accident," he said carefully.

Dís laid a hand on her son's arm. "You were standing on a balcony when it collapsed."

Kíli remembered. "Aye, in Thorin's Square." And then he _truly_ remembered: the chanting, the smoke, the blood. _Riots!_

Just then, in rushed Balin and Dwalin. The former broke into an ear-to-ear grin. "Kíli!" He flung his arms wide as though to embrace his young relative but caught a warning glare from Óin and simply repeated _"Your Majesty!"_ with great gusto. "Overjoyed am I to see you awake and well!" Never as expressive as his brother, Dwalin nevertheless had a twinkle in his eye and color in his cheeks as he said, "Welcome back, Yer Majesty." Then he pointed a thick finger at Kíli and, in the authoritative voice of a commanding officer, said, "Now, I won't call in yer debts today on that ale ye promised me in the lift, but I warn ya the interest has been accruin', and soon as ye're up an' at 'em, we've got some celebratin' ta do at the The Dragon's Lair." And since they couldn't show their affection to their bedridden cousin, the brothers slapped each other on the back instead.

Kíli looked from one to the other, mystified by their joviality at such a time. "General Dwalin," he said, "there is civil war in this city. Why are you not with the troops? Master Óin, why are you not with the injured?" When no one answered, he felt his temper begin to rise. "Why is everyone standing round my blasted bed?"

A pall descended over the room, and those in it looked everywhere but at Kíli. That couldn't be a good sign.

"How many casualties, then?" the king demanded more softly, fearing the worst.

"Four hundred-odd injured but none dead," the dutiful Dwalin replied. "Colonel Annar trained his regiment well."

At this, Kíli brightened some. Although the injuries were unfortunate, it was a blessing there'd been no deaths thus far, and this proved his investment in the military had not been a waste. "Has the square been cleared yet?"

"Aye," Dwalin said.

"And those who resisted the troops arrested?"

"Aye."

 _What **wasn't** he saying?_

"Master Óin, where are the injured? Who is overseeing their care? Have their families been notified?"

Another suspicious pause. "They're at home with their fam'lies now."

"What do you mean?" The medic must not have heard him correctly.

"Your Majesty," Balin said finally, reluctantly, "the riots are past."

"Past?" It took Kíli a moment to absorb the implications of this statement. "How far past?"

"A week," said Dís.

"And three months." That was Ori, and when Dís glared at him, he shrugged as if to say, _Well, he's got to know sometime._

Kíli frowned in confusion and looked about him as though there would be evidence of the turn of seasons despite that he was miles underground. "You mean to say . . . I've been abed these three months past? What day is today?"

"February the first of T.A. 2944," said Balin.

"Ye were concussed in the fall," Óin explained, and as if Kíli needed a translation of the medical terminology, Dwalin added, "Ye were sleepin' the sleep o' death, and we weren't none of us certain ye'd wake."

Stunned, Kíli ran a hand through his hair and felt the bandage round his head.

 _And remembered when far more delicate hands than his had tied that bandage._

But that was just a dream. That hadn't been real.

 _This_ . . . this was real.

"The balcony . . . " he said. "Tell me truly. _Was_ it an accident?" He looked round the chamber at his family, and they in turn looked at his chief advisor.

Balin's eyes fluttered, and he gave a small sigh through his nose. Still, he complied with their silent request and answered, "Bombur and several other master engineers examined the wreckage. There were no signs of sabotage, but neither was the structure in danger of failing before the collapse."

"The force of the mob then?" Kíli guessed. Close to a thousand dwarves had crowded into that square. He'd no doubt the press of their bodies against the support columns of the balcony could've brought it down.

Dwalin shook his head. "Colonel Annar said there wasn't nobody beneath the balcony when it came down."

"Thank Mahal for that." Kíli briefly closed his eyes in gratitude. It could've been so much worse, a disaster with many innocent lives lost. Instead, the only life they'd come close to losing was his own. It was as if . . .

 _It was as if he'd been targeted._ Very precisely and to devastating effect.

But Bombur had confirmed that there was no evidence of sabotage, and it would've been nigh impossible for a dwarven assassin to plant an explosive beneath a balcony that Kíli himself hadn't known he would set foot on until minutes before he did. So if this wasn't an attack by a fellow Longbeard, then by whom? The Lonely Mountain itself?

Tendrils of memory from a dream curled round the young ruler's head, echoes of his own dry, scratchy voice telling Tauriel that the mountain had judged him and met out its punishment. Echoes of Tauriel rationalizing that the mountain would certainly have finished him off if that was its intent. Even in his dreams, his _amrâlimê's_ logic was sound! No, not the mountain then . . .

"Gandalf warned us," Balin said slowly, "that forces of darkness might seek your destruction, sire."

Kíli felt a cold shadow pass over him. "But we've told no one that I live!"

No one outside the dwarven kingdoms except Gandalf.

And Tauriel. After the way he'd parted with her, Kíli knew he'd given her little reason to remain loyal to him, but he had full confidence that his love would never ally herself with evil.

Dwalin raised his bushy brows. "Thorin son of Dáin knows."

"But Dáin will be keeping a hawk's eye on him," Dís said. "I think it highly unlikely that Thorin or any of his supporters could smuggle communications out of the Iron Hills undetected under such heavy guard. Besides, for all that he is a traitor to the throne of Erebor, I do not believe he is so irredeemable as to be . . . "

 _A traitor to his own kind._ The princess trailed off so as not to speak the unspeakable, but everyone completed the thought for himself. It was one thing for a dwarf to try to depose a king but another thing entirely to expose a whole kingdom to the powers of evil. Dwarves were not made as men or hobbits. Even the worst of them were seldom susceptible to the absolute corruption of the Dark Lord, for their unyielding stubbornness was also their saving grace, and they could usually not be molded to such wicked purpose. As furious as Kíli still was with Young Thorin, even he didn't believe his cousin would sacrifice his own soul to employ black magic or consort with those who did.

In the end, it mattered less who had revealed the so-called miraculous Reawakening than to whom they had revealed it. If indeed one of the Dark Lord's minions had set his sights on the King of Erebor, it was more vital than ever that the mountain city stand united against that threat. Which would be an impossible task if Durin's Folk were torn apart by civil war.

Kíli remembered clearly the moment before the balcony had collapsed, when he'd been poised not only on the brink of his own death but on the brink of a new life for Erebor. In that instant when the stone shook beneath his feet, he'd despaired of ever making the announcement that he hoped would rekindle the faith of his people and reunite them toward a common goal. But as Tauriel had said in his dream, the mountain had given him a second chance to finish what he'd started. Though he couldn't speak to the people before, he could now _do_ for them what he would've said.

Even if, Kíli thought, his _amrâlimê_ had been just a dream, what she'd spoken of was real. And her counsel had been wise and fair.

He realized his head no longer ached.

"Oh, please don't remove that bandage, Yer Highness!" Óin admonished even as Kíli unwound it. "Not till I've a look at yer head meself!"

"You can have a look," Kíli said good-naturedly, ignoring the healer's anxious efforts to stop him. "You all can. I've been asleep far too long, but I'm awake now, and I don't intend to sit in this bed a moment longer when there's important work to be done."

"Whatever it is can wait, _inùdoyê_. You've only just awakened!"

"I feel fine, _'Amad_. Better than fine. I feel as though I could eat a whole boar! In fact, Ori, would you send down to Bombur's for some of his bacon rashers? If he's not at home, 'Imdala can griddle them up just as well. And have the page tell her not to scrimp on them!" He turned his attention to Balin. "Now then, I suppose you've been acting as regent?"

"And quite competently, I might add."

"My lady." Balin bowed his head in acknowledgement of Dís's praise.

Kíli nodded as well. "I owe you my greatest thanks, Master Balin. Who knows what new disaster I might've awakened to without your wise leadership?" Nevertheless, he continued to peel off his bandages.

Dís was becoming more agitated by the second. "I tell you, there is no need to overexert yourself, my son. The kingdom has been in good hands and will continue to be until you are fully recovered!"

"I've no doubt, _'Amad_. But I must not delay a minute more in putting a stop to any further riots!"

Kíli flung off the last of his bandages, and his mother gave a little cry and clapped a hand to her mouth. There was a collective intake of breath from the rest of the room, as well, and Dwalin let out a particularly strong oath in Khuzdul.

"What, do I look as bad as all that?" Kíli joked with a lopsided smile. He'd never been especially vain, but he hoped the scarring hadn't left him unrecognizable. "Will I have to wear my hair differently from now on lest people run screaming from my hideous face?" No one said a word, but he was disturbed to see his mother's eyes shining with tears. "Right, I'll fetch the looking glass myself if you lot won't just tell me straight out: How bad is the scar?"

"Oh, _inùdoy_!" Dís leaned forward and caressed her son's brow, lingering at the left temple that had throbbed so painfully in his dream. "There is no scar!"

"What?" Kíli laughed, dumbfounded. It wasn't the first time he'd heard a similar exclamation, for his fatal chest wound had left no scar, either. But that made sense to him; Tauriel's magic had healed him. This did not.

"The princess is right, Your Majesty. It is as if . . . the wound never was," said Balin, and even his voice, gravelly with age, was also hushed with awe.

"It was deep and wide as a crater, too! You could see straight to the bone!" Ori blurted. "We thought it would never stop bleeding, and Master Óin had to put in a dozen stitches! I watched him."

Kíli winced a little at this description and allowed Óin to peer into his various facial orifices and pronounce him fully healed, with no sign of previous trauma. The binding round his ribs came off, too, with a similar pronouncement.

"'Tis true then!" Dís breathed and grasped at her son's hand as a tear spilled down her cheek.

"Wonder of wonders! I wouldna've believed it if I hadn't seen it with me own two eyes," Dwalin muttered.

"Now, now, it _is_ a wonder, and it _might_ be true, but let's not be hasty," Balin cautioned.

Kíli felt utterly lost now. "What? What's true? Or _might_ be true?"

"The rumors!" Ori blurted again. "Kíli, everyone says you're the Seventh Incarnation!"

"Of _Durin_ ," Dís added in case he'd thought Ori referred to any other.

 _'Uhdad! Ablâkhul, Akrâzul, Binamrâd!_

Kíli had understood the page's bizarre invocation, but only now did it make perfect, horrifying sense: _Greatest Father! The Mighty, the Glorious, the Deathless!_

The King of Erebor felt his stomach drop as it had when the page had prostrated himself on the floor, but he managed to let out a short bark of a laugh. "That's the same dragon shite some people were saying after the Battle of Five!"

"There are more who say it now," said Balin. "Many more."

"And they changed their minds soon enough once I failed to recreate the Erebor of their grandparents' day. They will change their minds again."

"This time is different."

"How, Master Balin?" When the seasoned advisor was silent, Kíli's jaw dropped. "You don't actually believe this baseless dross, too, do you?"

"Now, I wouldn't say that. Not yet." Balin was clearly hedging.

It was Dwalin who finally broke the truth to his confused young relation in his plain-spoken manner. "The first time ye woke from the dead, some said it was the doin' of the elf maid from Mirkwood."

 _"Tauriel—"_

"Aye, that's who. But this time, sire, it wasn't no one but you who fell eighty feet, got buried under a pile o' rubble half that height, and pushed a three-ton granite column off o' yerself ta git free."

 _The darkness. The pressure. The close, thick, dusty air._ Kíli remembered it all too well. He even remembered pushing the heavy stone slab above him.

But three _tons_ of granite? He gave another incredulous laugh. "That's bloody impossible! No one could move that, not even Dori!" Whereas the average dwarf would be hard-pressed to lift more than a thousand pounds, Dori had been known to heft a ton when necessary. But thrice that amount? That was unheard of!

"Are ye tellin' me I don't know what me own eyes saw?" Dwalin crossed his brawny arms over his chest to show that he wouldn't tolerate such an insult even from the King under the Mountain, Durin returned or not.

Kíli stared in astonishment. "You were there?"

"Aye, along with Colonel Annar and half his regiment searchin' for ya."

"I searched, too, Kíli!"

"Thank you, Ori, I'm sure you did." Kíli was touched by his family's show of devotion, but there was no time to dwell on it. He thought fast and settled on the first possibility that seemed reasonable. "The search party must've disturbed the rubble so that the column rolled away. That must be what happened."

"Mm," Dwalin grunted, "much like the sword jest rolled outta me hand every time ya sparred with me these past two years."

Kíli glared from under a fringe of hair much tousled from his months abed. "I've been practicing!"

"Ya can't practice yer way ta the strength of a blazin' oliphaunt!"

"Nor practice scars away, neither," Óin murmured as if to himself. "First the mark o' the orc's mace and now the head wound. Never heard tell of anythin' like it!"

Kíli bit back the impulse to snap that there was much Óin probably hadn't heard for the past fifty years and instead said, "It's a family trait. Fíli and I always healed quickly."

"Not without any trace of a scar, _inùdoy_ , and you know it."

Dís's son closed his eyes and tried not to think of the many thin, pale, but still visible scars that crisscrossed beneath his clothing, the record of an active, mischievous youth.

"Why, the fall alone shoulda killed anyone, and here they pulled ye out with a concussed head 'n' a few bruised ribs!" Óin exclaimed. And then again: "Never heard tell of it!"

"So, I was fortunate this time," Kíli shrugged and grumbled, "It happens to others. Miners who walk out of collapsed tunnels with barely a scratch, for example. I've seen it back home in the Blue Mountains. And none of them turned out to be reincarnated ancient kings!"

"Ye've been fortunate _several_ times, if ye'll forgive me fer sayin' so, m'lord. Most recent afore this time when ya plunged three miles straight down in that cargo lift after the cables were tampered with. The way ye were hangin' in that cage, the force o' brakin' shoulda dislocated both yer shoulders at the least."

Kíli ran his hands through his hair in frustration. He couldn't deny that he'd never felt stronger in his life or that he'd made a number of freakishly close escapes from death since the first time he'd cheated it, and Durin the Deathless was said to be the strongest and hardiest of all dwarves who'd ever lived. But he couldn't believe _he_ , Kíli, son of Kali, who'd grown up a simple archer in the Ered Luin, _was_ Durin! He didn't possess the wisdom, knowledge, or virtue to be anyone's heroic savior of legend. Mahal, he couldn't even save anyone in real life!

His voice sounded desperate to his own ears, and he didn't like it, but in his desperation he turned to the one who'd known him longest and best. " _'Amad_ , tell them they're wrong. You birthed me and raised me from a dwarfling, when I was tall and gangly for my age and teased mercilessly for my scant beard and my fondness for archery. How many times did my own brother have to get me out of some scrape I couldn't save myself from? You _know_ who I am—Kíli, son of Kali, third born of a dispossessed minor noble, who lived by the labor of his hands all his days."

"Aye, 'tis true. But you are also Kíli, sister-son of Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór." Though his mother squeezed the hand he held out to her, her reply was far from reassuring. "The blood of Durin flows from my veins to yours. _You_ know that the greatest of the Seven Fathers must return through us."

At that, Kíli felt something inside himself draw up and seal shut like the Gate of Erebor, impenetrable. He'd never thought of himself as closed-minded, but the history, the legacy, the destiny of Durin were too vast for him to contemplate in relation to himself. And the truth was none of it had any bearing on what he must do in the here and now. No mythic hero of the Longbeards was about to rush in and save Erebor from civil strife; he, Kíli, must do that himself. And there was no time to waste.

He would fulfill his duty to the mountain and its people.

 _He would keep his promise to Tauriel._

And, having decided this, he felt that the pain was gone not only from his head and his ribs but also from his heart.

There were cries of dismay from Dís, Óin, and the others when their recently comatose king shoved back the bedclothes and hopped to the floor, but he ignored them and pulled on a pair of trousers beneath his nightshirt, then shucked the nightshirt for a loose tunic in the teal of his house. "Master Balin, General Dwalin, and Master Óin," he said as he buckled his belt, "will you kindly come with me to the Council Chamber? Ori, please meet us there with the rest of the Company."

"Don't you mean the Council?" Dís said as everyone trailed after Kíli to the door of his suite.

In the hallway, his personal guard was waiting, and though a few of them couldn't mask their amazement at seeing him up and about, all of them straightened and gave the proper salute. "At ease," Kíli nodded in return before heading toward the Council Chamber, his stride swift and purposeful.

The others scurried to keep up. _"Inùdoy_ , do you wish us to convene the Royal Council?" Dís repeated.

"No, _'Amad_ ," the King under the Mountain said with an easy smile, never breaking his stride. "The Company."

* * *

"I propose a vote."

"A _vote_?" Glóin squinted at Kíli, spitting out the offending word as though it were a bite of spoiled meat.

"D'ya mean like in a merchant guild?" asked Dori, who was a member of several.

"You could say that."

Kíli grinned broadly from where he sat at the head of the Council Chamber table. Or, more accurately, sat _on_ the head of the table, with one hip propped against it and his leg swinging freely. The other ten members of the remaining Company of Fourteen were seated around it, and it was plain to see from their squint-eyed glances that half of them, namely Balin, Dwalin, Óin, Glóin, and Dori, thought that blow to the head had left its mark on their king's wits if not his skin. The others looked curious and, in Bombur's case, hungry.

"Mmm, Bombur, this bacon . . . _mmm_! My compliments to your wife. Don't take this the wrong way, but she's dangerously close to outdoing you." Kíli took another hearty bite, for the page had arrived just moments before with the requested food, which was now spread on a large tray in front of him, and he was thoroughly enjoying it after more than three months without. "Can I offer you some?"

Bombur reddened and cast an eye about the room, for it wasn't customary to eat in the Council Chamber. But then his stomach growled audibly, and as Kíli, Ori, and Bofur laughed, he lumbered to the head of the table with his head bowed to accept a helping.

"Here, have another. And don't restrict yourself to sharing _my_ plate, take one for yourself," Kíli encouraged him. "Will anyone else have some?"

Bofur was the next to raise a tentative hand. "I-I will, Yer Majesty."

"Please! C'mon up, Bofur, and don't 'Majesty' me. Let's not have any titles in this room. We never did on the road."

Bifur followed close on Bofur's heels, then Nori and Ori came up for a serving, and soon enough, even the older dwarves who'd rolled their eyes and refused to get their own plates were picking at the others' shares and licking their fingers.

Kíli surveyed the room and felt his heart warmed by the sight of them all together again, doing what they did best—appreciating good food! He felt more at ease here among them than he had anywhere else since he'd become king.

The normally dignified Balin used his sleeve to dab surreptitiously at the corner of his mouth. Between dabs, he said, "I must admit, Your Maj—Kíli—that this is all highly irregular."

"You're right, Balin, it is." Kíli chewed with mock thoughtfulness. "I think we should make bacon rashers in the Council Chamber much more regular, don't you?"

Balin promptly swallowed his mouthful and made an exasperated grimace. "I was referring to this vote you speak of. And may I ask why, if you truly insist on it, you do not take the vote from the Royal Council?"

Now Kíli, too, stopped eating and put down his plate. It was time for serious talk. "You know I value the input of my councilors, and some of you in this room are, in fact, among them," he began lightly enough, though his words were heavy with meaning. "But the Royal Council was handpicked by royals—in particular, Dáin and my mother. It is, by nature, exclusive and far removed from the people and, at least for the first year and a half, was dominated by councilors from the Iron Hills. And I listened to them even though I would've trusted the opinion of one of my brothers-in-arms over theirs any day of the week."

There were nods and murmurs of understanding, though some of the older dwarves still looked skeptical.

"Seated round this table at present, we've got a cross-section of the kingdom—administration, military, merchants, crafters, miners. You are truly the representatives of Erebor, and it is as such that I ask for your opinions on a matter of utmost importance."

More murmurs, this time of surprise and confusion but also interest.

"But a _vote_ undermines the Mahal-given authority o' the king," Dwalin huffed.

"Indeed it elevates our opinions over yours, which is not in the natural order of things," Balin agreed.

"In the merchant guilds, the vote leads to all manner of arguments from whichever side's the loser," Dori chimed in. "And if it's by ballot, often there's accusations of fraud and demand for a recount."

"It ain't by ballot, ye dunderhead." That was Glóin. "But it matters not. Votin' is the gateway ta abuse o' the law. Gits the masses addicted ta the power, and then they start demandin' a say in everythin'."

"Not that anyone in this chamber would dream of demanding their say otherwise _._ " Kíli fought to hide a wry smile, for as irritating as the bickering sometimes was, he realized it was one of the many things he'd missed about the Company. "I've no doubt we can cope with a few additional opinions in Erebor."

"You _are_ the king, lad," Balin reminded Kíli and everyone else.

The chief advisor had clearly meant this last statement as a concession to Kíli's divine right to do as he pleased, but the young monarch seized on it and said, "Aye. I _am_ the king. One individual in a city of thousands of people. And as this decision will affect _all_ those people, not just myself, I think it only right that you all get an equal say in it. There are eleven of us here, so my vote will break the tie. No need for any recounts, Dori."

More murmurs, and then Bofur piped up. "Well, I'm not sure what good _my_ lil' ol' opinion will do, but yer welcome to it!"

"Equal say sounds like a fair deal to me," Nori decided. "Never did believe in just one body makin' choices fer everybody."

"We can try it, and if we don't like it, we don't ever have to do it again. Right, Kí?" Ori shrugged.

"So we're takin' a vote on takin' a vote now, are we?" Glóin groaned, but there were other sounds of assent, and Kíli grinned even more broadly than before.

"So, don't keep us in suspense, lad. What's this matter ye're seekin' our indispensable advice on?" Dwalin prompted.

"And speak up!" Óin reminded him.

"Right. So then." With the controversy over the vote out of the way, Kíli relaxed a bit, though his dark eyes still focused steadily on each member of the Company as he glanced around the chamber. "No one can deny Erebor is in _kakhf_ up to Level Ten, and though Dáin and his advisors surely meant well, it was following their policies that got us into it. Some of _you_ tried to tell me what the people needed—Balin, Glóin, Bombur, Bofur, Dori and Nori—but I was so intent on strengthening the military, I could see nothing else."

"The people _do_ need a strong milit'ry, and they've got one now," said the chief of defense.

"Aye, and that is largely thanks to you, Dwalin. But it's come at a cost to their financial security. They live in poverty, which is as hazardous to the health as any attack from the outside world."

Balin cleared his throat. "What precisely do you propose to alleviate it when our isolation limits the profits we could gain by trade?"

"An end to our isolation."

The murmurs and mutters erupted into clamor, and Óin had to raise his ear trumpet and ask others what was being said.

"Have ye gone mad?"

"By me beard, it's about time!"

"Now, lad, we must remember what the wizard said—"

Kíli raised his hands for silence, and though he didn't get it, he was at least able to make himself heard. "I know what Gandalf said, but Gandalf hasn't been here in over two years. He hasn't seen how we've strengthened our defenses, and I _don't_ propose that we announce my reawakening to all of Middle-earth but that, as Master Frithr once suggested, we take a few of its most trustworthy leaders into our confidence. King Bard. Lord Elrond. Those who helped us on the quest. We negotiate trade agreements with them, and then in time, if all goes well, we learn from them who else we can trust."

Glóin pumped a fist in the air. "Now ye're talkin', laddie! That's what I've been sayin' all along—ya build a strong kingdom on a strong financial base."

"I know more'n a few in the Craft Halls who'll be pleased as Yule punch ta start sellin' their wares in earnest," Bofur added.

"Aye, and in the merchants' guilds, as well," acknowledged Dori, though he stroked his beard as if troubled. "And I'm not sayin' I wouldn't welcome a bigger purse myself. But not at the expense o' the king's safety."

"Which'll be compromised without a doubt," Dwalin glowered.

"It already is," Kíli said quietly, locking eyes with the tattooed warrior.

"That's no reason to go'n make it worse, spreadin' the news to who knows what other walls and their eager ears!"

"Bloody axes! What're ye blatherin' on about, Gen'ral?" Glóin threw a strip of bacon fat that pinged off the forehead of its target, whose long, slow answering blink would've silenced anyone but the ginger-bearded chief of finance. "Yer army's strong as it's ever been, stronger'n men or elves can match. If any of 'em dare attack Erebor now, we'll griddle their long, scrawny hides right up with the bacon rashers!"

"It ain't just men or elves we're dealin' with now," Dwalin said darkly over the others' guffaws. "That balcony didn't collapse by itself."

"I must say I cannot advise this course of action, either. Not so soon after the attack three months ago."

"Then when, Balin?" Kíli's voice rang out amidst the ruckus, which died down around him. "Now that we know someone knows, another attack could come at any time. We cannot plan. We cannot prepare. We cannot even defend ourselves. Against those whose attacks we cannot see, weapons are of no use."

Kíli startled then, for he'd heard the words that had just issued from his mouth before, in a long-ago vision, when they were a warning he hadn't understood. He understood it well enough now and breathed a silent prayer of thanks to Thorin just in case his uncle had been more than a phantom of his mind in the drill hall late one night. Fortunately, none of the dwarves noticed their king's strange pensiveness, heads hung in contemplation of the truth he'd spoken, however unwelcome it might've been.

"What do we do then?" Kíli continued a moment later, "Close and lock the Gate of Erebor till the end of the age or till we starve to death inside, whichever comes first?"

Low vocalizations and one or two Iglishmek gestures told him the idea was unthinkable.

"Obviously, that's not an option. Now, the attack on the balcony was an attack on me alone, thank Mahal, and was carried out with great precision. Whoever wants me dead apparently has no interest in harming anyone outside the ring of his well-aimed destruction. For the sake of Erebor, for the sake of the people, I accept this risk to myself. As for anyone else who has frequent occasion to be in the ring with me . . . " The King of Erebor paused and swallowed, thinking of all the loved ones in close proximity to him every day and one in particular who was not but might yet be. " . . . You each must decide for yourselves what degree of risk you will bear. I will hold no one at fault for keeping his distance."

A hush fell over the chamber as each dwarf weighed the risk to himself, but the silence didn't last long before Dwalin broke it. "If ye can take the risk," he said decisively, "so can we."

"That's right, ain't none of us gonna abandon ya, Kíli," said Bofur. "Not after we came this far. We do it together or not a'tall."

Kíli shared a smile with the toymaker as other affirmative sounds and gestures followed. _This_ was why he trusted the Company above all others. The miles they'd crossed together had left their imprint not just on the soles of their shoes but on the soul of brotherhood between them.

Balin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You know you can count on me till my dying breath, lad, but I must remind you one more time that Gandalf strongly urged us to—"

"—take a risk," Kíli finished for him. "Go on an adventure. Be brave and believe in ourselves. If we learned anything on the quest, wasn't it that?"

"Here, here! To takin' a risk!" chorused Ori and Bofur, followed by Glóin, Nori, and Bombur, and finally Óin, Dori and Bifur (in Ancient Khuzdul, of course).

Balin and Dwalin still looked less than enthusiastic, but when the King under the Mountain called for the vote shortly thereafter, there wasn't a single "nay."

* * *

kakhf—excrement, shit

Up next—Gandalf! Galadriel! Celeborn! Elrond! Saruman! In Erebor! Kíli finds out something life-changing about himself, but will it be what everyone thinks? Plus, back in Hobbiton, Norithil continues to be an interesting child . . .


	26. Chapter 26 - A Second Reawakening I

A/N: First off, my continuing gratitude to everyone who's been reading along with this fic and most especially to those who reviewed the last chapter or who followed and/or favorited since the previous update! Your interest is a great motivator! :)

Second, I remain thankful to Moonraykir for her careful editing, thoughtful suggestions, and well-considered opinions on key elements of this story.

Third, I've added a new warning to the Chap. 1 author's notes at the beginning of this fic. It also contains what some might consider a plot summary but what others might consider a spoiler. For those of you who've been reading along from the beginning, it won't be a spoiler at all at this point. However, the warning still applies. I added this warning due to a few complaints about the plot direction that I received on a different web site. I'm not changing the plot direction, but I believe readers should have fair warning about what kind of fic this is so that everyone can take responsibility for their own choice to read it or not. As I suggested after Chap. 7 and will suggest again, if you want to read this fic but find it too frustrating to wait and wonder when Kíli and Tauriel will meet again, you might want to consider saving it to favorites or bookmarking it in your browser and returning to it when it's complete. It's shaping up to be a true longfic!

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 26**

 **A Second Reawakening I  
**

* * *

 _July, T.A. 2944—Hobbiton_

Turn around, turn around, and the seasons were revolving, winter melting into spring, spring blossoming into summer.

Turn around, and the babe was gone, replaced by a leggy little chap, as "Unc Bibbo" would say, though still soft of skin and full in the cheeks.

Turn around, and Norithil was gone, for he was every bit as mischievous as his _nana_ had been as a child, and more so. Although he could happily concentrate on a pleasurable task for long hours like any elfling of his age, when he finally decided he was bored or when it was time for bed, he could lead Tauriel and Bilbo on such a chase that _they_ were the ones longing for bed at the end of it. Though of a sturdier build than Tauriel or her siblings had been, Norithil was light on his feet, nimble and flexible enough to wriggle into nooks and crannies from which only Bilbo was small enough to extract him. He learned the fun of this game quickly and often squeezed himself into the places Bilbo was most loathe to go—up the chimney or down the rain barrel, for example.

Tauriel was sore and weary at the end of every day, but perhaps all mothers of young children were. She missed her own mother dearly and wished she could've asked the elleth with the knowing gray eyes and the patient smile if she too had fallen into bed at night exhausted. If so, Tauriel wished now that she could apologize.

* * *

 _September, T.A. 2944—Erebor_

Shouts rang and hammers clanged, echoing through Thorin's Square. But no longer were they shouts of fear, nor were the hammers raised in anger. The dwarrow who swarmed the square were architects and engineers, masons and carpenters, all applying themselves to the task at hand—rebuilding the balcony that had collapsed during the riots.

"As ye can see, Yer Majesty, Master Balin, we're just gettin' started here, but we expect construction ta be completed within the next three months," said Mundin, Minister of Internal Affairs, a paunchy fellow who let his salt-and-pepper beard flow free and unfettered by braids or beads.

"Good work. Please tell the foremen I said to keep it up," Kíli nodded, though the balcony was last on his list of priorities. "Let's move on to Level Two. I'd like to see what progress has been made in the fifth residential quarter." That section had been condemned almost a year ago, and since then the displaced families had been forced to take refuge with relatives or pitch their tents alongside the new arrivals awaiting permanent living quarters.

"I'm pleased ta report, sire, that our work in the fifth quarter is almost done. Fifty o' the ninety-eight fam'lies who lost their homes were able ta reclaim 'em in the last three weeks, and the remainder o' the homes should be ready by the end o' the month."

Kíli exchanged smiles with Balin. "That's the best news we've heard all morning. Lead on then, Master Mundin, and we'll have ourselves a look." In actuality, the young king intended to do more than just look. He wanted to stop a few passersby in the public square, knock on a few reconstructed doors, and make sure the residents were satisfied with their new housing.

"Forgive me, my lord, but perhaps we should hold off on the tour of the fifth quarter. Our distinguished guest is soon to arrive."

"I'm aware of the time. We won't be long, Master Balin," Kíli assured him. He meant it, too. He would allow plenty of time to make himself presentable, for their "distinguished guest" was none other than Lord Elrond of Rivendell, only the second ruler to be granted an audience with the King of Erebor.

The first had been King Bard of Dale, who had answered the summons to the Lonely Mountain as soon as Kíli had sent it, not knowing what crowned head would greet him. Upon arrival, he'd been ushered into the receiving room by Balin, Dwalin, Frithr, and Rathi, who had sworn him to secrecy on the matter of their sovereign's identity before admitting him to the throne room. After his initial shock had worn off, Bard had been overjoyed to see Kíli alive and well and to regain what he'd thought was a lost opportunity to thank the dwarven warrior for his part in protecting Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda during Smaug's attack. From that point forward, trade negotiations had proceeded swiftly, and within days, the first wagon full of wheat, barley, oats, and rye had arrived at the Gate of Erebor to ease the famine.

Dale was just one city, but its renowned market attracted men throughout the North and East, and they were anxious to buy Dwarvish weapons, tools, toys, jewelry, and other wares not seen in their Mannish towns in generations. In addition, the Kingdom of Dale contracted with Erebor for raw ore and weaponry and hired many dwarven masons to assist in the more delicate, detailed work of their continued restoration effort. A steady stream of coin and food supplies began to flow from Dale to Erebor, and though Durin's Folk were not yet the wealthiest of the Seven Clans again, they were no longer on the brink of destitution.

In early spring, Lord Elrond had also replied to his invitation to Erebor, and though he wasn't able to make the journey until September, he had surprised everyone by ordering a large quantity of gold, silver, and precious gems sight unseen. His gesture of good faith in the dwarven kingdom had impressed Kíli, who remembered the Company's shameful behavior in Rivendell and felt undeserving of the high lord's confidence. Yet this substantial order had also helped to replenish Erebor's treasury, and before long, they'd begun the housing and infrastructure repairs that the mountain sorely needed.

At this time of the morn, there wasn't much traffic through the central square of Level Two. Most of the dwarrow were at their daily work, and the dams were clearing away the breakfast and dressing the children, so it was an odd hour for them to be out and about. Still, a few scurried past, and Kíli picked the nearest and approached with a friendly smile. "Greetings, madam."

When she whirled to face him, his breath hitched. _Her eyes!_ Green as the forest on a summer's day, and the slant of them . . . ! They were the same shade and shape as . . .

 _But no._ Of course she looked nothing like Tauriel. Not really. She was a brunette with a rather bulbous nose and a spotty complexion that she tried to hide behind her beard. Kíli tried to right his wavering smile. It wasn't her fault that she wasn't his love. "My apologies for the intrusion, but may I have your name?"

When the green-eyed dam saw who addressed her, she froze, and her ruddy cheeks blanched. "Aye, m-m'lord. Banmûna, wife o' Grafi, son o' Grafin, at your s-service." She dropped into a deep though clumsy curtsy.

Kíli smiled more broadly in an effort to put her at ease. Sometimes he forgot how his mere presence could send strangers into an apoplexy. He made a mental note to ask Mundin to approach the next dam. "Good day to you, Banmûna, wife of Grafi. May I ask if you're acquainted with anyone who lives in the fifth quarter?"

"I-I-I do m-meself." Then her control broke, and she began to babble. "But please, m'lord, don't arrest me fam'ly! We ain't done nothin' wrong! Me husband—he's in the mines now—wasn't one o' them rioters. He just got caught in the square that day on his way home to me 'n' our bairns. And me brother only run inta that scrap ta try ta find me husband, only he got the worst of it. He's a gen'le soul, he is, and wouldn't harm no one. We've always been loyal to ye, our whole fam'ly!"

Her trepidation tugged on Kíli's heart strings, and he immediately sought to relieve her distress. "My good madam, please. Be at peace. We've not come to arrest anyone. We merely hope to have a look at the new construction in the fifth quarter and wondered if you might be so kind as to point us to a dwelling that's in a state to receive visitors."

The green-eyed dam stopped trembling then and dared to peek up at the king and his small entourage. "Dunno that me humble home's yet fit for visitors, 'specially the likes o' ye, but if ye don't mind that we're still settlin' in, 'twould be me honor to receive ya."

Banmûna lived on the third story of one of the terraced abodes carved into the side of the mountain. As soon as she opened the front door, it was plain to see the family was still unpacking, for which she apologized profusely whilst in the same breath calling to whomever was in the rear apartments to wash and dress the children in their best, as "we've got high-born guests."

"High-born?" replied a gruff voice from within. "D'ya mean the damn superintendent agin? Tell 'im we'll have the money on the morrow and not a day sooner."

"Higher." Banmûna's nervous eyes were trained on the King under the Mountain.

There was a brief silence. "What d'ya mean? How high, then?"

"The highest," she gulped.

So as not to show his amusement at this exchange, Kíli cleared his throat and busied himself glancing about the reconstructed dwelling. "Aye, that was the wall that was cracked and close to crumblin', so the masons said," Banmûna confirmed when Mundin spread his palm flat on the stone by the hearth to examine it. Kíli may not have been a mason himself, but he knew good work when he saw it and was glad the failing structure had been mended without sacrificing quality for speed.

They were still studying the repairs when the occupants of the rear apartments emerged— an elderly dwarf who looked to be in his last few years of life, unsteady on his feet as he led two bairns by the hand, and a younger male who bore a strong resemblance to Banmûna but had no right arm below the elbow. Despite their physical disabilities, the moment they recognized the King of Erebor, they gaped and stumbled to their knees, the elderly one tugging the children down with him. Then they chorused what was by now a painfully familiar chant: _"'Uhdad! Ablâkhul, Akrâzul, Binamrâd!"_

 _Greatest Father! The Mighty, the Glorious, the Deathless!_

Unable to bear the old and the frail inconveniencing themselves for his sake (or the chanting, for that matter), Kíli advanced quickly to help them to their feet. "Please. Rise, my friends. Rise, and be at ease." The elder dwarf looked grateful as he accepted Kíli's assistance, though the younger waved the proffered hand away and got up on his own.

"Yer Majesty, Masters Balin and Mundin, if I may be so bold ta make introductions, this here's me father, Ingi, me brother, Vingi, and me two lads. Please fergive _'Adad_ if he sits in yer presence, m'lords. His back and knees trouble him somethin' awful these days."

"Certainly. Please. You should all be at your leisure." Kíli helped Ingi into the nearest chair. "We've been on our feet all morning and would welcome the chance to sit, as well."

Banmûna flushed deeply. "Oh, aye! Mahal, where's me manners? Please do, Yer Majesty, good sirs. Make yerselves comfortable, as much as ye can be in the midst of all this clutter, fer which I do apologize agin."

In truth, Kíli wasn't tired, and he doubted Balin and Mundin were, either, but he didn't want to embarrass Ingi or his family, so he gestured to his councilors to take seats in the modest parlor anyway.

"Let me pour ye some tea." And hissing at the young lads to sit still and be quiet, their mother bustled off to fetch the kettle. Whilst their hostess was gone, Kíli introduced his advisors to Ingi and Vingi by title and explained briefly what each of them did.

" _'Adad_ here worked in the mines till winter last. A driller he was," Banmûna said when she returned and caught their conversation.

"A fine profession. And you?" Kíli asked Vingi to be polite.

"I was a cobbler, sire."

"But no longer?"

"Not since I lost me arm in the riots."

Kíli didn't miss the crafter's sullen tone, accompanied by a resentful glance that made the young ruler wonder if Banmûna had been truthful when she said her brother was not an instigator in the violent outbreak. But, it mattered not. The riots were past, and Kíli blamed none so much as himself for the desperate times that had driven some to rebellion. If this fellow had participated, then he'd surely paid a heavy price for his mistake. "I'm sorry. That was a terrible day indeed. For all of us," Kíli said soberly.

Vingi made a noncommittal sound and glared down at his tea mug.

"Before I leave, let me direct you to the surgery of my personal medic, Master Óin. He's a bit hard of hearing, so you'll have to speak up to tell him what you want, but he's very clever at fashioning iron hands for injured blasters. There's no reason why he couldn't make one for a cobbler, as well."

At last he had the lad's full, though dubious, attention. "What d'ya take me fer? Ye must be jesting. I've never seen no such thing as an iron hand."

Kíli grinned. "Not jesting at all. As Mahal is my witness. You can be fitted for the hand tomorrow if you like, and with a little practice and patience, there's no reason you can't work again."

"Oh, m'lord . . . " Banmûna gasped, nearly dropping her serving tray. "Vingi! _Nudud_ , ye must see this medic, this Master Óin!"

"Hold, _'anai_. His Majesty hasn't named the price o' this iron hand. Sure a trinket like that don't come cheap ta folk like us." He spoke to his sister, but it was Kíli he narrowed his eyes at in unspoken challenge.

Instead of responding to that challenge in kind, as he would have a few short years ago, Kíli gave an answer that was both soft and sincere. "The crown covers treatment for all injuries acquired on public land. Thorin's Square, where you were injured, my friend, is public land. That entitles you to an artificial limb at no cost to yourself."

"The blessings o' Mahal be upon ye, m'lord!" Banmûna burst out. And then to her brother: "'Tis an answer to prayer, it is!" Old Ingi reached over to pat his son's hand, eyes twinkling under raised brows.

Vingi, too, was finally approaching a smile as he exchanged hopeful glances with his father and sister. "If 'tis true, I'd be much obliged, sire," he said at last, his voice rough with sudden emotion, "much obliged."

"I'll tell Óin to expect you," Kíli grinned.

After that, they chatted more easily about the fifth quarter renovations. Kíli asked about the state of the plumbing, the steam heat, the sturdiness of the new construction's foundation during mine blasts. He asked whether the residence was spacious enough and if it was laid out as Banmûna and her family wanted. He asked what they knew of their neighbors' homes, whether or not they too were satisfied. And then he asked about their provisions for the coming winter: Did they have enough grains after last year's shortage? What about meat for curing and vegetables for pickling? It was only when all of these questions and then some had been answered in the affirmative that Kíli rose to take his leave.

Banmûna saw the small party out. The light of the lanterns in the entryway danced in her green eyes, and, for a moment, they were as heartbreakingly lovely as those eyes Kíli had almost mistaken them for. "Yer Highness," she said as he was poised in the doorway, "we never expected ya ta come all the way down here, we didn't. Ye did a good thing fer us today, more than ye can know. I haven't the words— That is, I don't know how—"

"You're welcome," Kíli said with a simple smile, saving her from the need to say more. Then he bowed his head in thanks for her hospitality and took his leave.

The king and his councilors knocked on several more doors and, after waiting out the inhabitants' shock, repeated much the same questions with much the same answers before Kíli conceded that it was high time to return to the upper levels and ready themselves to greet Lord Elrond and his retinue. By then, some of the miners and crafters were on their way home for lunch. When the gate to the Level Two lift opened on about a dozen of them, instead of clearing out swiftly to make way for the royal who unexpectedly faced them, they fell to their knees and began to chant: _"'Uhdad! 'Uhdad! Ablâkhul, Akrâzul, Binamrâd! 'Uhdad! 'Uh—"_

"Durin's be _—_ " Kíli began, then broke off, thinking better of that particular oath. He set his mouth in a grim line. "Let's take the stairs."

* * *

 _September, T.A. 2944—Hobbiton_

"Weed?" Norithil asked in Sindarin, holding up a leafy stem. His evergreen eyes, which Tauriel knew were a shade darker than her own, were wide and questioning.

"No, that is a hollyhock," she corrected him. "Yes, it looks like this coltsfoot weed, doesn't it? They've both got leaves shaped like hearts. But the weed is smooth and shiny, whilst the hollyhock is rougher. Do you see?" It was an irony, she thought, that the coarser leaves were the ones which produced the most beautiful blooms.

Norithil studied the plant in his hand and ran his fingers over its ridged and wrinkled surface, then nodded.

"It will bloom next year," Tauriel explained.

"Next 'ear," Norithil repeated seriously, then took up his little trowel and set about uprooting the smooth, shiny-leafed weeds with renewed vigor.

Tauriel watched him with a fond smile for a moment more before she returned to the bulbs she was planting. In late spring, it had come to her attention that her son derived great enjoyment from digging and pulling things out of the ground. Unfortunately, she had discovered this when he'd pulled out a row of Bilbo's favorite tulips. Bilbo, bless his heart, had been very understanding but had cleverly suggested that they kill two birds with one stone and set the "little chap" to weeding. As with most new tasks, Norithil was a fast learner and readily picked up on the distinguishing marks of weeds versus flowers, and so he got to amuse himself rooting in the dirt whilst also beautifying the garden.

Tauriel had almost finished planting a row when she noticed the hot prickle of the sun on the back of her neck and paused to press a handkerchief to her brow. Elves seldom perspired, but ever since becoming a mother, she sometimes found herself reaching for that handkerchief during a day's labor. When she'd mentioned it to the lady hobbits, they'd just laughed, and Peony had said that to have a youngling was to be forever sweating over something. Perhaps, Tauriel thought, it only seemed that elves seldom perspired because few of them ever became mothers! Well, with the sun so high, it was time to prepare luncheon anyway.

"Let's go inside and get something to eat, _ionneg_ ," Tauriel said.

Norithil pushed out his lower lip in a gesture of dismay that needed no words. _"Ú. Darthon."_

 _No. I stay._

 _Hmm._ This was new. He'd never outright refused to do something before. Tauriel wondered if her son had reached that stage that Bell and Peony referred to as the "terrible twos." Her first instinct was to gather the youngling up and carry him inside whether he liked it or not. After all, he couldn't stay out here by himself! But then she remembered Bell calling these "terrible twos" a time to "pick your battles" because, in the end, children _did_ need to learn how to do things on their own.

 _"Darthon!"_ Norithil repeated more adamantly, patting the ground for emphasis.

Tauriel sighed. The truth was she could both see and hear him from the kitchen window, and undoubtedly half the neighborhood (or at least Daddy Twofoot) was watching, as well, so there was no reason _not_ to let him continue playing in the garden except for her own fear of the unknown. And did she really want to teach him to be afraid in his own front garden without her?

"Very well, then. You may stay here whilst _Nana_ goes inside for a bit. But you mustn't leave the front garden, do you understand?"

Norithil nodded soberly.

"And you'll call if you need me?"

Norithil nodded again.

"Right," Tauriel muttered, hoping she wasn't making a foolish mistake and hurried inside the _smial_ before she could regret it. As soon as she got to the kitchen, she threw open the window.

The babe who was no longer a babe was already elbow-deep in the dirt again, and every few seconds, another scraggly weed went flying over his shoulder.

* * *

 _September, T.A. 2944—Erebor_

Kíli stared at himself in the looking glass, the archer from the Blue Mountains transformed into a king. The image that stared back at him was bedecked in the heavy furs and gold-trimmed teal velvet of high ceremonial garb, crown polished and gleaming, face framed by braids of status that proclaimed him Champion of the Quest of Erebor, Victor of the Battle of Five Armies, King under the Mountain, Ruler of the Longbeards, High Chief of the Seven Clans, and Heir of the Line of Durin. The braids—two on one side, three on the other, and one in back—were adorned with beads of gold, beryl, and corundum, which sparkled blue-green like cold stars against the dark cloud of his hair.

Kíli stared at himself, but _was_ it himself he stared at?

Or was it Durin—the Mighty, the Glorious, the Deathless?

He didn't _look_ like the images of Durin he'd seen on engravings, tapestries, or the cradle quilt he'd slept under till he was five years old. According to legend, every reincarnation of Durin was supposed to look the same. But apparently this fact made no difference to the Dwarves of Erebor.

Seven months had passed since what the people called the Second Reawakening, the day Kíli had emerged from his coma after the riots. But unlike the first time he'd risen from the dead, when the rumors were furtively whispered and had dissipated along with early confidence in his leadership, this time the rumors were no rumors at all but open declarations as Durin's Folk pledged their faith to the dwarf they believed to be their reincarnated hero. It seemed he could go nowhere without dodging prostrated bodies and hearing their chant ringing in his ears. And yet, Kíli felt no more certain of who he was now than he had been on the day he'd awakened.

Maybe that was part of the problem.

Although he didn't enjoy being king and would've given his own life rather than inherit the throne by the deaths of his uncle and brother, Kíli couldn't deny that ruling Erebor had changed him. These nearly three years past had stretched him to his limits, broken them, and then pushed him beyond. They'd taught him he was capable of more patience, perseverance, judiciousness, resourcefulness, and selflessness than he'd ever dreamed possible.

He'd learned that he could aim for more than a bull's-eye on a field target, that he was capable of translating advanced Khuzdul, showing up to Royal Council meetings on time, and getting other people to listen when he spoke.

He could stop a riot and bring down a traitor and let go of the love of his life to keep her safe even when it made him die inside. He could die inside and yet live for his people. And for _her_.

Kíli wasn't the same lad who'd left his mother's house on a quest that some called reckless and others fated, nor even the warrior who'd been slain defending his love in the Battle of Five. But he was still trying to get to know this new Kíli he'd grown into, and it was too much to contemplate that now he might be somebody else entirely. Somebody like, say, a renowned ancient king who was supposed to lead his people to the most prosperous era in the history of their race.

Kíli placed his palms flat on the mirrored surface before him, and a minute later they curled into fists. Dammit all, he didn't _want_ to be Durin! He didn't want the responsibility, the expectation, the deification if things went well and the demonization if they didn't. Was it not enough for him to carry the tangible weight of the Lonely Mountain on his shoulders? Must he also now carry the mythic weight of Khazad-dûm?

He hung his head, leaning against the cool glass. Any minute now, he'd have to pull himself together and welcome Lord Elrond and the Elves of Rivendell. How he wished he could greet them with his own Woodland Elf at his side! What a fine queen she would've been, gracious and self-possessed! (And fluent in Elvish, too, which would come in handy at a time like this.) He felt sure Tauriel would dismiss all this Durin nonsense with a wave of her slender hand and love him for who he was in this lifetime, not for who he might've been in the last.

Kíli missed her.

Like fire missed air. Like a crystal missed the light. Like a downed raven missed the sky.

Without her, he felt continually out of his element even in his own home. He wondered if he would ever be able to make this her home, too.

Now that he knew forces of evil he couldn't see coming were intent on harming him, restocking the armory and rebuilding the troops would not be enough to protect her if she were in his vicinity when another unnatural attack occurred. Just hours after awakening from the highly suspicious collapse of the balcony, Kíli had offered his nearest and dearest in Erebor the choice to keep their distance or throw in their lot with him and take their chances, and they'd all chosen to remain at his side. But if he took Tauriel as his wife, no one would be at his side as frequently as she. No one else would be so often in the direct path of attack. And if the two of them were to bring a bairn into the world . . . He shuddered at the thought of the terrible, constant danger that child would be in just by virtue of being near his own father.

"Yer Majesty?"

Kíli's head snapped up. In the looking glass, he saw a page standing behind him.

"Ever so sorry ta interrupt, m'lord, but Lord Elrond's arrived."

"Very good. Thank you."

"Shall we show him and the others inta the receiving room?"

"Yes, that should be— Others? What others? You mean his attendants?" Kíli looked sharply at the page's reflection.

"Nay, sire. He's brought two wizards with 'im—that Gandalf and a white-bearded fella! And the Witch o' the Golden Wood and 'er lord!"

* * *

 _September, T.A. 2944—Hobbiton_

"Is the little chap doing anything different out there?"

"No." Tauriel ducked back inside the kitchen window.

"Oh? I thought he might've moved a few feet to the right since last you looked," Bilbo said around his pipe, completely straight-faced until the warrior maid glared at him, which prompted a half smirk.

"He's still on the other side of the gorse." She'd nearly run outside when her direct line of vision had been eclipsed by the hateful bush, but as she could still see dirt and weeds flying out in all directions and hear Norithil burbling to himself, she'd let Bilbo convince her to let the youngling have his fun.

"Did I tell you I ran into Tom and Lily Cotton this morning whilst I was in town? Mistress Lily said to say hullo. Nice gal." He took a thoughtful puff on his pipe. "She was wearing the oddest get-up, though—a skirt over a pair of breeches! Reminded me of those leggings you elves like to wear— Oh, I say! Tauriel, are you all right?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," she muttered, though she also swore in Sindarin under her breath. She'd just nicked herself slicing apples for the cobbler. She sucked on her injured pointer finger, then shook the hand out. "It isn't such a deep cut. It should take less than a minute for the bleeding to stop."

Several minutes later, the bleeding hadn't stopped, and Bilbo was rummaging in the medicine chest for a bandage. "This one's a bit large perhaps," he said, unfurling a cloth long enough to wrap twice round Tauriel's arm. "But we can snip off a few inches!"

"Oh, Bilbo, no. Please. It's only a finger. It will stop bleeding any minute now, and by this time tomorrow, it will be completely healed."

"I'm sure it will," Bilbo said with a kind smile, ignoring her protests as he wrapped the ridiculously large bandage round her finger, then her hand, and finally anchored it at her wrist.

"I look as though I'm wearing an oven mitt," Tauriel said flatly.

"You can't deny it's practical," Bilbo shrugged in return.

And that was when she realized she no longer heard Norithil.

* * *

nudud—brother

'anai—sister

ionneg—my son

A/N: You may notice that this chapter is divided into two parts. I often split chapters when they get too long, but these are really two parts of the same chapter, so I've titled them to reflect that. I really didn't _want_ to end off here since I was hinting about a big reveal for Kíli in this update, and I'm so very sorry I wasn't able to fit that in! But Banmûna and her family sneaked into the second scene when I wasn't expecting them, and I liked them too much to cut them, so they kind of stole the show this time around. Such are the hazards of posting a WIP, I guess, but I hope you'll agree that Kíli's visit to Level Two added something special to the chapter. And you can rest assured that Kíli gets his big news in "A Second Awakening II," which I'm already working on!

SPOILER FOR THE FEARFUL: No, nothing tragic happened to Norithil, but he _did_ get up to something interesting! ;)

Up next—Kíli gets his big news, but other than that, I feel like I should maybe stop trying to predict what's next! :O


	27. Chapter 27 - A Second Reawakening II

A/N: Happy Holidays, y'all! To everyone out there reading, everyone who's left reviews or added this fic to your follows or favorites, everyone who's offered advice or suggestions that made this fic better (especially my brilliant beta reader, Moonraykir), your support and encouragement is a gift all year round! Here's a nice long chapter with a big reveal as my gift back to you! :)

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 27**

 **A Second Reawakening II**

* * *

 _September, T.A. 2944—Erebor_

It was only the third time that King Kíli had used the throne room for its intended purpose—to receive visitors to Erebor.

The second time he'd used it thusly had been in February for King Bard's arrival.

And the first time had been on the worst day of his life, when it had become the scene of his break with Tauriel. But he tried his best to put that day out of his mind as he awaited the dignitaries who formed a stately procession up the walkway.

Kíli, King of Erebor stood before his throne. To his right stood Balin, Chief Advisor and Frithr, Minister of Foreign Affairs whilst Dís, Princess of Erebor and Dwalin, Chief of Defense stood to his left. All were dressed for the occasion, but Dís was especially stunning in a bejeweled teal gown with a high neck, funneled sleeves, and a hooped skirt that Kíli thought looked voluminous enough to hide the Great Bronze Bell of Erebor. Her luxurious auburn hair, usually pinned up in plaits, had been allowed to flow over her shoulders and merge with the soft waves of her beard, and the intricate, gem-studded braids woven throughout declared her Mother and Sister of Heroes Fallen, Princess of Erebor, Royal Mother, Grande Dame of the Longbeards, Mother of the Seven Clans, and Mother of the Line of Durin. (Kíli knew she'd also wanted to wear the braid that marked her as the mother of Durin himself, but that he would not consent to. Not without knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt that Durin was who he was.) Dwalin, too, looked uncommonly sharp in his full ceremonial armor of shining mithril, and both he and Balin sported braids—Balin in his beard and Dwalin in his mustaches—that corresponded with their respective titles and honored their deeds in the Quest, the Reclamation, and the Battle of Five Armies, in addition to several earlier battles such as Azanulbizar. In addition, the chief of defense had a new row of runes tattooed on his forehead signifying the rank of general of the army.

Kíli stood, although it was not customary for a king to defer to his guests by standing to greet them. Nevertheless, he felt he owed that gesture of respect to this host of eminent beings who'd ruled in Middle-earth thousands of years longer than he'd been alive. He reminded himself not to wipe his clammy palms on his robe. He hadn't much practice at holding court for foreign sovereigns, and to do so for ones so renowned raised the stakes and his own anxiety. Besides, just before they'd entered the throne room, Dwalin had sworn he'd cover Kíli's tab at The Dragon's Lair every Friday night for the rest of the year if Kíli managed to get through this reception without botching something. As King under the Mountain, it wasn't as though he couldn't afford his own ale, but the natural competitor in him would be damned if he was going to lose that bet. He clasped his hands behind his back and thought about looking dignified.

Leading the procession that advanced toward the dais was Elrond Half-elven, perhaps because he was the only one of the five who'd actually been invited. His appearance was unchanged from when Kíli had seen him last—just as in Rivendell, he looked neither young nor old—except that he was now clothed more formally in an embroidered silk burgundy robe with a gold sash and matching cape, simple yet elegant, his signature circlet upon his brow. When he reached the foot of the throne and was announced as "His Lordship Elrond of Rivendell," he raised his eyebrows in recognition and bent slightly at the waist but otherwise did not express surprise to see the "dead" sister-son of Thorin Oakenshield before him in the flesh. But, then, elves were so reluctant to express any emotion that had Elrond been surprised, Kíli would likely not have known it. "Lord Elrond. We are honored to welcome you and your company to Erebor." The dwarven archer-cum-king returned the elven ruler's bow somewhat stiffly, his own company's shameless conduct in Rivendell still painfully fresh in his memory. "It is our wish to offer you the same hospitality that you so generously extended to a band of thirteen dwarves who did nothing to prove ourselves worthy of it."

"Ah. So . . . you've a public fountain set aside for our exclusive use, then?"

Due to that same expressionless demeanor of elves, it took Kíli half a minute of less than dignified stammering whilst his advisors eyed him nervously to realize that Lord Elrond was jesting. But once he did, he let out a most undignified laugh. The corners of Elrond's mouth twitched upward in response. "You are more than welcome to any of our public fountains, though I hope you'll at least try the private bathing chambers that we dwarven savages designed in one of our better moments. We're actually rather proud of them."

Elrond nodded, and Kíli was not quite as taken aback this time to notice a twinkle in his eye. "I look forward to it. It's been a long journey, and I would thoroughly enjoy the refreshment."

The crisis averted, Kíli felt rather than saw his advisors' tension subside and was pleased that he was yet winning the bet with Dwalin.

"On behalf of the Elves of Rivendell," Elrond continued, "I thank you for opening the gates of Erebor to us and trust that soon the gates of commerce between our folk will be likewise opened."

"That is our hope, as well." Kíli's smile was genuine. He already felt more at ease with the elf lord here than he ever had in Rivendell.

"His Lordship Celeborn and Her Ladyship Galadriel of Lothlórien," the court marshal intoned, and Kíli forgot not to stare as the one they called the Witch of the Wood and her consort approached the foot of the dais. All elves were tall and fair in the eyes of a dwarf, but these were assuredly the tallest and fairest he'd seen. They were both attired in silver, as though wrapped in the Milky Way, whose radiance seemed to flow from their very fingertips. It was as though they'd just arisen from a lake beneath the night sky, dripping reflected moonlight! Why, the Witch of the Wood, who looked nothing like a witch to Kíli but like one of the divine Valar, seemed to glow as bright as Tauriel had when she'd healed him of the leg wound! When Lord Celeborn bowed his head politely and the Lady dipped into a graceful, if brief, curtsy, Kíli was awestruck beyond comprehension that they were bowing to _him_. It was only when Balin nudged him, mumbling, "You are honored to be in the presence of such esteemed personages," that the young monarch spit out his greeting.

Unfortunately, he repeated it word for word, precisely as Balin had said it—"My lord and lady, you are honored to be in the presence of such esteemed personages"—before he heard Dwalin chuckle to himself, and his own eyelids lowered in mortification. He was most grateful for the natural reserve of elves when Lord Celeborn gave a smooth reply without allowing his true thoughts to show. However, when Lady Galadriel nodded at the dwarven king, the faintest of smiles seemed to flit about her mouth, as the moon appears before vanishing behind the clouds.

Kíli cleared his throat, still smarting from his blunder and wondering how many drinks he would have to buy Dwalin when the next guest stepped forward. This one greatly resembled Gandalf, but his beard and garments were white as fresh snowfall. His bearing was different, as well, his posture rigidly upright as compared to Gandalf's familiar slouching silhouette, and it was obvious he was fussier about his clothes, for his robe fell around him in meticulous, wrinkle-free folds.

"His Lordship Saruman the White of Isengard."

Ah. The name rang a bell. Kíli remembered reading about this Saruman in the political tomes that his mother, Balin, and Frithr had heaped on him in the first year of his reign. What exactly he'd read, however, escaped him now beyond that the men of Rohan and Gondor had established the wizard in their famed fortress for protection. Kíli gave a small bow of respect, to which Saruman merely fluttered his eyes and peered down his long nose in a way that emphasized his far greater height. After the barest flash of annoyance, Kíli schooled his features to reveal nothing, though he felt his ears redden. He didn't think he much liked this fellow.

And then, at last, there was only one visitor left to welcome.

"His Lordship Gandalf the Grey of . . . of . . . " The court marshal stalled as he searched his memory for any recollection of where the wizard came from, then simply repeated, "Gandalf the Grey."

Kíli's feelings were mixed upon seeing the wandering wizard again. Gandalf had shown himself to be a loyal supporter of Durin's Folk, and it was unlikely the Company would've succeeded in their quest without him. However, he had a frustrating habit of disappearing when he was needed most and only reappearing when it was convenient to him. Already he'd been gone more than two years, leaving the dwarven kingdom to flounder in isolation, and now he marched in on the heels of the very foreign sovereigns he'd denied Erebor permission to treat with! So it was with a touch of wryness that Kíli said, "The Dwarves of Erebor welcome you back, Gandalf." He lowered his voice for the Grey's ears only. "Though we might've preferred it had you warned us you were bringing guests."

"And I might've preferred it had you heeded my warning not to invite any! But instead, on my way through Rivendell after a long and tiring journey, I was greeted with the news that you were fool enough to reveal yourself to all and sundry in direct opposition to my counsel!" Gandalf boomed, blasting to bits Kíli's attempt at private conversation. When the dwarf glowered, the wizard waved his hand toward the other guests. "Oh, don't look so put out. They're elves; they already heard what you said."

Behind them, Dwalin instinctively shifted to a defensive stance. "I'll thank ye kindly to have a care who ye call 'fool.' Remember, ye're addressin' the King of Erebor now."

"I do not care who he is. A king can be a fool as easily as any other, and if yours is one, you can be certain I will say so!"

Dwalin growled, and Kíli's arm whipped out to bar his path to Gandalf, but the younger warrior was no less piqued. "You left us to our own devices for two and a half years, and we'd no idea when you would return! Our people were starving, their dwellings crumbling all around them! What would you have had us do, shut ourselves in the mountain and wait to die? And the only ones I invited to Erebor were King Bard and Lord Elrond here." He gestured to the party of tall, slender figures that stood on the sidelines, observing the argument without comment. "It is you who've revealed me to 'all and sundry.'"

Gandalf gave another dismissive wave of his hand. "Nonsense! Those four have always known that you live." When every dwarf in the room gaped at him, he said, "What did you think I meant when I told you I was going to see what I could find out about your reawakening? Did you think I intended to consult the moon and stars or ask the wind in the trees?" He leaned forward on his staff, and this time there was a conspiratorial look in his eye. "Even wizards have councilors, you know!"

Kíli hadn't known. Truly he'd never given it a thought. Gandalf's wisdom had seemed an intrinsic part of him, not something learned or acquired but something that always was and ever would be. To think that he had his own version of a "Royal Council" was a strange notion, but it made sense. If Gandalf trusted these folks to keep the Reawakening secret, and they'd done it so far, Kíli supposed he should trust them, too. (Even the white-bearded fellow he didn't like the looks of.)

"No matter," Gandalf concluded with a decisive tap of his staff. "No one in Erebor died of starvation, and no one outside it betrayed your confidence, though I do wish you'd not revealed yourself to King Bard. He's a good man, but men are notoriously bad at keeping secrets. However, you've worse problems to address now."

Kíli frowned. "What do you mean?"

It was Lord Elrond who stepped forward to answer. "King Kíli, it was not Gandalf who asked the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien and Saruman the White to accompany us to Erebor. It was I. I apologize to you if I overstepped my bounds in doing so, but I believed it necessary, and as Gandalf has said, all three were already aware that you survived the Battle of Five Armies, as was I when I received your invitation. At first it was only Gandalf that I intended to bring with me. He passed through Rivendell this summer, so I informed him of your missive, concerned as I was that you might also take less trustworthy sovereigns into your confidence. He shared my concern, and we proposed to make the journey to Erebor together. Gandalf spent the last two and a half years roaming Middle-earth in search of an answer to the puzzle of your reawakening, you know."

Gandalf said nothing but cocked his head and raised a bushy brow at Kíli, who felt instant remorse for supposing the worst of the wizard. "I'm sorry, Gandalf," he swallowed. "I accused you in haste of abandoning us when you were only trying to help."

But Gandalf would hear none of it. "No harm done. I regret that I wasted so much time in Lindon seeking answers that were not there"—his eyes slid toward Saruman for some reason—"whilst the people of Erebor suffered so. But let us move on to the purpose of this day's visit." And he looked to Elrond to continue.

"Yes. Well." The dark-haired elf cleared his throat. "When we arrived in Dale, we discovered that there were Dwarves of Erebor employed there, and we were most disturbed to hear the rumors they'd been spreading—that their celebrated leader, Durin the Deathless, had returned to them."

Dwalin bristled. "Who? What were the names o' these loose-lipped rock heads? I'll personally see to it that they pay for betrayin' the King of Erebor, ta the last one!"

Kíli closed his eyes and shook his head. "We've no case against them, General," he sighed. "We forbade the people to tell anyone beyond the dwarven kingdoms that I came back from the dead. We never forbade them to tell that they believe Durin walks among them."

Dwalin cursed under his breath in Khuzdul. It was true. No one had thought to forbid it, not Kíli nor any of his councilors. This was, Kíli supposed, what came of trying to ignore the Durin talk rather than confront it head-on.

"You must know this gossip put your kingdom in as much danger as if you'd formally declared your reawakening, which is why I warned you not to foster relations between the dwarves and the other Free Peoples," Gandalf said, but there was less reprimand and more resignation in his tone now. "The return of Durin is precisely what the great evil of our world fears, for it has been prophesied that his kingdom will not fall."

"In Dale," said Elrond, "I sent for Lady Galadriel, Lord Celeborn, and Saruman the White and requested that they come with us to Erebor since they are very knowledgeable regarding the history and lore of the so-called Father of the Dwarves. And so, King Kíli, we've come to learn if what your people say is true." Here he paused, and the silence was heavy. "We are here to find out if _you_ are the seventh coming of Durin."

"Of course he is." Heads turned toward Dís. It wasn't traditional for dwarrowdams to speak in the presence of outsiders, but no one made a move to object. She lifted her chin and smoothed her skirts. "He must be. Only Durin could return from the dead twice."

"But I wasn't dead the second time, _'Amad_. I was only sleeping," Kíli corrected her gently.

"The second time?" Gandalf and Elrond exchanged startled glances, and the other visitors murmured amongst themselves. "What second time?"

And so the dwarves told the tale of the Second Reawakening, each relating his or her own part in the story, sometimes talking over one another in the excitement of their memories, their haste to answer questions. In contrast, when the elves talked, Kíli noticed, especially the two from Lothlórien, he could feel the weight of millennia behind their words, their speech seeming to move as slowly as time moved for them.

At last, when the tale was finished, Elrond said, "I fear you are correct, my friends: this tragedy bears the hallmarks of an attack by a powerful unseen enemy."

Kíli's spirit sank within him. Although he'd guessed as much by now, to have it confirmed was a hard blow.

Dwalin thrust out his chin. "How d'we fight it, then?"

" _You_ do not," Gandalf said pointedly. "This foe is beyond any of you."

Saruman swept a hand toward his companions. "We will convene and decide upon a course of action at the appropriate time."

"Yes, and don't let me hear of you taking off on some idiotic mission of vengeance, Dwalin, son of Fundin." Gandalf pointed his staff at the general, who'd begun to grumble. "You are needed here in Erebor, not roasting over the fires of Dol Guldur like your cousin Thráin." This finally silenced the tattooed warrior, who'd been part of the disastrous mission from which Kíli's grandfather, Thráin II, had been abducted by agents of the Dark Lord.

"But let not your heart be heavy, King Kíli."

At this, the youth startled, for he thought he'd gained more control over his emotions than to wear them on his sleeve. Yet here came the Lady Galadriel, gliding up the stairs toward him with a look of compassion, as though her piercing blue gaze had shone a light into the darkest corner of his soul.

" _You_ survived this foe's attack. He will not attempt to harm you again."

"H-how do you know?" The statuesque elf towered over Kíli, and he felt almost paralyzed within the orb of her attention, though it was not an unpleasant sensation.

"Because you proved that he could not destroy you."

"It is not an easy thing to attack from afar," Lord Celeborn seconded. "This enemy likely amassed his strength and dealt you his fiercest blow first in hopes that there would be no need of a second."

"But what if another attacks? Someone even stronger?"

Galadriel began to circle the dwarven king slowly, and that faint smile he'd seen before reappeared. "They will need to be very strong indeed to defeat you."

Kíli gulped, though he hoped not audibly. "Is . . . is that b-because I'm . . . _Durin_?"

Having completed her circle, the Lady of Light stopped before him, and a hush fell over the throne room as ten pairs of ears hung on her next words.

Her smile widened. "No. My young King Kíli, yours is not the spirit of Durin."

There was an instant and noisy reaction from the dwarves. "You must be mistaken! There is no other explanation for these miracles!" Dís protested even as relief blanketed Kíli in its warm embrace. _He was **not** Durin! Oh, thank sweet, blessed Mahal!_

"Princess, I assure you that Lady Galadriel knows that of which she speaks from experience," Gandalf said over the din.

"Experience? What experience?" Dwalin made an impatient gesture toward the silver-robed lady. "She's an elf! What does she know about the Greatest Father o' the Khazad?"

"What do _you_ know about him, General Dwalin?" Gandalf broadened his gaze to include all of the dwarves. "What do any of you know about him? Which of you was there when a single one of his incarnations walked this earth?" He paused to let this truth sink in, then said, "But Lady Galadriel was there. She was personally acquainted with your Durin in every one of his incarnations. There is none better to judge whether he's come back to you now."

Galadriel was still observing Kíli closely, and he began to feel self-conscious under her scrutiny. "No," she said again, "this is not the spirit of Durin that stands before me, for his is a spirit I would recognize. This spirit I've not met before. But, oh, it is a bright spirit nonetheless!"

"Quite the brightest we've seen among the _Aulëonna_ ," agreed Celeborn.

 _"Aulëonna?"_ Kíli echoed, feeling stupid.

"Dwarves," Elrond translated. "It's the brightest spirit we've seen among the dwarves. With the notable exception of Durin himself."

"Y-you can see my _spirit_?" The idea was equal parts wondrous and appalling.

"As soon as we entered the throne room," Celeborn said. "You looked like a lamp upon the dais. Did he not, my love?"

"Indeed," Galadriel murmured, eyes trained upon the dwarven monarch.

"Can a-all of you see it?"

"No." Gandalf's voice held a tinge of regret. "That privilege belongs only to the High Elves."

"What does it look like?" Kíli asked, suddenly overwhelmed with curiosity.

Reaching out a graceful hand, Galadriel tipped up his chin so that he looked her full in the face. "It is a golden hue. With a tinge of blue at the center, like a flame."

Then her eyes flared, and Kíli's did, too, for though her lips did not move, _he_ _heard her voice in his head_!

 _"And it is **bonded** to one of our kind!"_

 _Bonded._ The term was strange to him. _To one of their kind?_ Did she mean . . . what he felt for—? His mind raced. _"You **know**? How? You can see it?" _ he thought wildly before he could stop himself.

 _"I can see that you are bonded, yes. But that your bond is with one of the Firstborn, no, that I cannot see. I can only **feel** it upon touching you. The others do not know."_ Her eyes narrowed. _" **Your own kind** do not know. You were bonded in secret."_

So this "bonded" referred to what had passed between him and his _amrâlimê_ on the lakeshore, then. _"Aye."_ Kíli straightened, his countenance fierce. If this elf would be so bold as to invade his most intimate memories, then she must be bold enough to hear the truth. _"And I regret nothing. I'd do it all again for just one night with her, for I love her beyond measure."_

At this, Galadriel's heavy presence within his mind seemed to lighten, and Kíli, too, relaxed a bit in spite of himself. _"Yes. I can see that you do. Your spirit shines ever brighter as you think of her."_ She paused, her expression pensive. _"Why does she not reside here?_ _Her spirit is very present with you though she is not."_

Kíli peered up at this ethereal being, wondering at the compassion that radiated from her toward a strange mortal of comparative unimportance. At once, his sense of shock and affront at her intrusion melted into relief and then gratefulness, for now that she'd discovered his secret, she was the first to whom he could freely confess the hidden burden of his heart. This time, when his thoughts bubbled to the surface of his consciousness, he let them go, fully aware that they would pass to her and eager to relinquish them: _"She came to me after the first three attempts on my life, and I sent her away. I did it to protect her from those who wished me dead, but I didn't tell her that. I thought she'd refuse to go just to keep herself safe, so I let her believe I couldn't be with her, that I had to wed one of my own race. Mahal knows I suffered blows upon blows on the quest, some I thought like to finish me and then the one that did, but her absence is the worst wound that ever I've had to bear. Sometimes I don't think I **can** bear it. I'd give anything to protect her, but oh, m'lady, I miss her so!"_

 _"As she must also miss you."_

He hung his head for a moment. _"I do not know. I would not wish on her the grief and longing that I feel, yet I hope she still carries me somewhere in her heart."_

 _"It is a certainty that she does. Since you are thus bonded to her, she is likewise bonded to you. And once an elf has bonded, she will never love another."_

His head snapped back up, dark eyes wide. _"Not ever?"_ As much as he detested the image of his elf maid in the arms of that insufferable Prince Powder Puff, it occasionally brought him comfort for her sake to think that she might be loved by someone who could protect her and provide for her needs while he himself could not.

Galadriel shook her head, a slow swaying to one side, then the other, and back to center. _"Without you, she is in danger of fading."_

 _"What's that?"_ Tauriel had never spoken of it, this "fading."

 _"That is when an elf loses her will to exist in this world apart from her beloved."_

Kíli swallowed hard and his eyes grew even wider. _"You mean she could . . . she could **die**?"_

 _"Not quite in the way dwarves understand it, but yes, she could fade away until there is no trace of her left in Middle-earth. That is why you must go to her as soon as you can."_

 _"I've wanted to go to her since the day I had to send her away! But I could not subject her to such peril if I allowed her to remain at my side! Yet now you tell me she is in even more peril if I do not . . . "_

As confusion churned within him, he became aware of the confusion that churned without, for whilst he and the Lady of Light conducted this inner dialogue, the rest of the throne room was abuzz with its own conversation.

" . . . and if my son is not Durin, then I charge you to explain how he was resurrected from the dead!"

"Aye. Between the five o' ye, can't ya tell us anythin' about how he came back ta us stronger'n before?"

"A blessing of the Valar. We must not question the wisdom of those whom the Allfather has entrusted to do his work. Aulë has always looked after his own. It is not for mere mortals to understand his ways." This was only the second or third time Saruman had spoken. He'd asked one or two pointed questions when the dwarves recounted the story of the Second Reawakening, but otherwise he'd held his own council. Nevertheless, he spoke now with confidence and authority. And condescension, Kíli thought.

Gandalf apparently shared Kíli's opinion. "On the contrary, the Allfather created mortals to question the world around them and seek to understand it," was his gentle rebuke. "To turn their backs on their natural curiosity would be a far greater offense to His design." Then to the dwarves he said, "But those who want answers must first ask the right questions."

"What of the elf maid?" Balin ventured. "The one who healed His Majesty from the Morgul arrow wound in Laketown and tried again to heal him after the Battle of Five? What role might she have played in all this?"

"Yes, we must not forget the red-haired Nando. The Wood Elf," Elrond agreed.

 _"She is the one to whom you are bonded, is she not?"_

Kíli heard the voice in his mind and caught Galadriel staring at him again. There was no point in denying it, so he met her stare directly. _"Aye. Tauriel."_

Her eyes moved through and beyond him, to some distant point. _"Tauri-el."_ She seemed to be trying the name on for size.

"This was not that _she-elf's_ doing," Dís snapped.

Kíli sensed the elves in the room tense at this racial slur, though they possessed the grace not to comment. He threw his mother a sharp look. "So you keep saying, but you never offer a reason why it could not have been."

"Because she is, at best, a fool who hadn't the wherewithal to save herself or anyone else!"

As offended as he was on his "she-elf's" behalf, Kíli almost laughed with incredulity at this ridiculous interpretation of his love, an elite warrior. "If Tauriel is a fool," he said, "then your son is the king of fools, for she saved me three times at least, two of which Master Balin and General Dwalin can attest to and the third witnessed by Master Óin! But you say she is a fool 'at best,' madam. What is she at _worst_ , would you say?" He'd long sensed his mother's simmering resentment toward his _amrâlimê_ , a resentment that seemed to have no cause other than Tauriel's elven blood, and he was beginning to think it high time he forced her to state her prejudice outright. "Go on, _'Amad_. Let everyone present hear. What is Tauriel's greatest failing in your eyes? Is it her failure, so you think, to save me a _fourth_ time? Or is it simply her failure to be a dwarf?"

 _"Let this go."_

 _"Why?"_ He could see from her tightly pursed lips that he'd struck a nerve with his mother, and he glared up at the tall, fair elven lady whose intrusive thoughts now stood in the way of pursuing this argument to its inevitable conclusion. _"How can you stand idly by whilst she insults one of your own race?"_

 _"Now is not the time for this quarrel."_

Gandalf, too, raised both hands for peace. "My lord, my lady, please. Mistress Tauriel served as captain of King Thranduil's guard for well over two hundred years. I believe we can say with confidence that she has saved many lives in her time."

"Just not that of my son," Dís muttered.

"By the hammer and anvil, you don't know what in the Wild you're talk—"

 _"Now is **not** the time." _

One of Galadriel's brows was arched in a queenly way that even the King of Erebor felt compelled to obey, and he did, though with a frustrated puff of air that blew the hair straight up off his forehead. "You say my spirit is very bright," he said to her aloud, for all to hear. "Is that because Tauriel brought me back to life?" And then, in his mind: _"Or is it because I'm—what did you call it— **bonded** to her?"_

Likewise, in his mind, she answered, _"A bond between an elf and a dwarf is a very rare thing. I've known of only one other such bond in over eight thousand years."_ Kíli's mind stalled just trying to contemplate that length of time. _"But, if memory serves, the bond alone would not account for the intensity of this brightness."_ Aloud she said, "As you are the only dwarf I've ever known, save your Durin, whose spirit so illuminates him, and the only one ever to rise from the dead in body and mind as well as spirit, I believe this illumination is the result of that event. But, as to whether Tauriel of the Woodland was its cause, not I nor anyone in this room can tell you that without observing her directly."

"But," Saruman said, raising his voice to be heard over Galadriel, "we can make a reasonable conjecture. This Tauriel is Nandor, a common Wood Elf."

Kíli clenched his jaw and fists, as he did not like it that Saruman called his love "common," but he knew Balin would be very disappointed in him if he used those fists in the throne room, so he steeled himself to suffer the wizard's obnoxious prattle.

"The great elven healers of history, those who could perform such feats as you've described, have been of more distinguished bloodlines—Noldor, occasionally Teleri or Sindar. Even if she acquired some training from High Elves and managed to clear the poison from a leg wound, it is all but impossible that the Wood Elf raised anyone from the dead. If you pin your hopes on her, Your Majesty, I expect you will be sorely disappointed."

Kíli met Saruman's cool, imperious stare with his hot, bold one. "She saved me," he said softly but with no less conviction. "I know she did."

"You know no such thing." Dís's voice was tight, her words clipped. "Think, _inúdoy_. The riots. The Second Reawakening. That miracle occurred without an elf in sight for miles. How do you explain that?"

Admittedly, he could not. He knew it made no sense. Nonetheless, he'd always felt deep in his bones that whatever Tauriel had said or done on that lonely promontory as he lay dying was the reason he'd been given a second chance at life . . . and now a third.

"Well? How do you explain the second miracle?" Dís repeated.

"Easily. What you call the Second Reawakening was not a miracle at all." To the astonishment of every dwarf present, Lord Elrond strode forward with a small but confident smile on his lips, and the self-assurance in his tone did not strike Kíli as feigned, as Saruman's did. "King Kíli's luminosity of spirit isn't merely ornamental, you see. It is a sign of his vitality, a measure of the life force within him. It is unique among dwarves in that its brightness is remarkably . . . elven."

It was clear from the rumblings in the throne room that the dwarves did not take kindly to this characterization of their king. "There is nothing _elven_ about my son," Dís said haughtily. "He is Kíli, son of Kali, son of Fóli. Sister-son of Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór. He is a Longbeard of the House of Durin through and through."

"Quite so. I'd the pleasure to be personally acquainted with His Majesty's great-grandfather," Elrond said affably enough, refusing to be drawn into a confrontation with the princess. He turned toward her son. "What I meant by 'elven' was that the light which emanates from you, King Kíli, indicates a degree of vigor typically seen only among the Eldar."

"Durin's Folk have got vigor aplenty," Dwalin argued to a chorus of "ayes." Behind his back, Kíli shot the general an Iglishmek sign roughly translating to "shut it." He, for one, wanted to hear what Lord Elrond had to say.

"That is so. And King Kíli's vigor, I confess, is made manifest in a different form than it is among the Eldar. Our folk are swift and nimble, our senses sharp. We've a strong, tireless constitution and readily heal from injury."

Conjured by Elrond's description, images of Tauriel flashed through Kíli's mind: Swift and nimble as she dodged spiders. Senses sharp as she cocked an ear to an approaching boat on the Long Lake. Strong and tireless as she cut down a pack of Gundabad Orcs. Readily healing every time she scrambled to her feet after Bolg cast her down . . .

"However, in you, King Kíli," Elrond continued, breaking the youth's reverie, "this spiritual vigor appears to amplify the strengths of your own folk—raw physical power, endurance, resilience. In these dimensions, in a contest of skills, I suspect you'd surpass many an elf. Now, whilst we do not know precisely how you acquired this vigor, we do know it was sufficient to survive an eighty-foot fall and lift the crushing weight of three tons of stone. That was not a miracle; it was the natural, expected outcome for one with such vitality, which any of us could have predicted had we seen you before the collapse."

Kíli said nothing, so busy was his mind trying to connect the puzzle pieces of almost three years and view them as the whole image Lord Elrond had just drawn. An image of someone . . .

"What are you saying?" Dís gasped. "Are you saying my son is . . . ?"

"Immortal?" Kíli supplied as the pieces finally clicked into place. His heart raced on the edge of awe, excitement, trepidation, and a kind of horror.

"No. Not immortal." Galadriel smiled softly, her gown trailing behind her like the wake of some silver-scaled fish as she moved. "But a spirit as bright as yours will be very difficult to extinguish and will shine beyond the years commonly allotted to your race."

Shining spirits, allotted years . . . All this highfalutin language was growing tiresome. "How long will I live?" Kíli asked plainly.

Finally, he got a plain answer, this time from Celeborn, who Galadriel said was better at such approximations than she. "In my judgment," he said in his ponderous way, "your years will number thrice the years of the eldest dwarf among you."

So, since most dwarves lived to be two hundred fifty, maybe three hundred if they were lucky . . . "Nine hundred years? I could live to be almost _a thousand years old_?"

There was a startled cry from Dís, a murmured swear from Dwalin, and other sounds of amazement from the dwarves in the room.

The young ruler could hardly take it in. So he shut it out. Only later would he consider the implications of outliving every dwarf he knew. At present, one thought echoed in his mind louder than any other. One leaping, dancing, shimmering thought that, for the first time, didn't vanish as soon as he reached out to touch it. A thought whose outlines were even now becoming solid enough to catch and hold close to his heart.

Galadriel heard it and turned her beatific smile upon him.

"This is why you think we needn't worry about another attack, isn't it? Why our enemies no longer wish to harm me?" Kíli said.

"Oh, they may still wish it. More so than ever." Elrond gave a wry smile. "But as a magical attack is very costly to the attacker and chances of success are now so slim, you are quite probably not worth their while, my lord."

Kíli's eyes sought Gandalf. "Then Erebor is safe?" It was more statement than question.

"There are no guarantees in this life, King Kíli, but to all appearances, for the present"—the wizard gave a single nod of confirmation—"Erebor is safe."

The thought felt warm and supple and very _real_ in Kíli's arms.

* * *

 _September, T.A. 2944—Hobbiton_

All thoughts but one fled her mind as Tauriel rushed to the window. There was no movement behind the gorse, no flying dirt or weeds, nothing.

An icy fear gripped the Wood Elf's heart then and squeezed, as it did whenever her only son slipped out of her sight. For she knew not whether he'd been gifted with the hardiness of elves, and in those moments her mind instantly flew to all the disasters that befell mortal children. Why, just this summer one of the little hobbit younglings had fallen into The Water and drowned before anyone knew he was missing!

 _"Ionneg!"_ She was halfway out the door before the cry had left her lips. _O Valar, mortal or immortal, let her son be all right!_ And if he'd so much as set foot out of the garden, she would never let him out of the nursery again!

On the other side of the gorse bush, Tauriel halted and flung an arm out. Bilbo skidded to a stop behind her, just inches from tumbling into a hole as deep as he was tall. Seated at the bottom of the hole was Norithil, who hadn't gone _out_ of the garden but more deeply _into_ it. Speechless, they could only watch as he tipped back his head to grin up at them and raised a chubby fist in which he clung to something like a trophy. _"Tiro, Nana! Mîr!"_ he exclaimed.

The transparent stone sparkled in the sunlight, refracting a rainbow of colors as Tauriel bent and took it from him, a crystal half the size of her own palm. "Yes," she answered in Sindarin, "it _is_ a treasure." And then, feeling blessed to have found him safe and sound: "As you are _my_ treasure."

Norithil's grin widened, coloring his cheeks and crinkling his eyes.

"However do you suppose he found it?" Bilbo squinted at the crystal, clearly impressed yet utterly mystified. "From the looks of that hole, it must've been three feet underground! How would he even know to dig there?"

"I do not know," Tauriel lied as she stared down at the half-dwarven child with his thatch of coal black hair.

In her mind, a voice whispered, _I think you do._

* * *

tiro—look (imperative)

mîr—treasure

A/N: Up next—Kíli can't wait to _act_ on the "one thought" that "echoed in his mind louder than any other"! Plus, a glimpse into the dark schemes of the enemy right under everyone's nose . . .


	28. Chapter 28 - A Deeper Mystery

A/N: Thank you, everybody, for your great response to the last chapter, for all the reviews and good questions! I see there are some new readers who added this fic to their follows or favorites since last time, so if you're just joining us, welcome aboard, and I hope to hear from you if you'd like to drop a line. :)

I owe many thanks to Moonraykir this time because this chapter, which sets up for later events, was very challenging to write, and she patiently answered all my questions and offered invaluable feedback.

Guest 12/25: Very happy to hear you liked the "Christmas present"! ;) And thank you so much for the lovely compliment! I try to keep this fic interesting and full of surprises, but of course I don't really know if I'm succeeding until I hear it from readers like you, so I appreciate that you told me. :) Thank you for reading and reviewing!

Rahj: I'm glad to know you enjoyed the last chapter! :) That telepathic conversation between Kili and Galadriel was my favorite part of it to write, without a doubt. Kili's longevity is definitely a surprise to him and everyone else, but it will give him so many more years with Tauriel and Norithil that he can't possibly complain. ;) And, yes, he's itching to go find Tauriel, which we'll see in this chapter, so read on! Thank you for reviewing! :)

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 28**

 **A Deeper Mystery  
**

* * *

 _September, T.A. 2944—Erebor_

Sometimes even a wizard could envy the Firstborn. Their gift of spiritual discernment was truly a blessing! Gandalf himself had sensed only that there was an aura of power about young Kíli since his resurrection—a remnant, he'd thought, of whatever force had accomplished so great a feat—but he could not have visualized it as a measure of the dwarf's strength or longevity. There was yet more for him to learn, the Grey mused, during his time here in Middle-earth.

Gandalf leaned on his staff in the courtyard outside the Gate of Erebor, waiting for the stableboy to fetch his horse. The elves would stay on for several more days to negotiate trade agreements and military alliances with the dwarven kingdom, but his own work here was done. He was satisfied that there would not be another attack on the mountain for the foreseeable future, and its new king was now free to proclaim himself to the world and get on with the business of ruling.

Gandalf was proud of the lad. He'd come far since his days of jumping in public fountains and mouthing off to mountain trolls, pulling pranks on Bombur and frightening Bilbo with tall tales. From the looks of Erebor these days, he was becoming a good king. In time, his reign might well become legendary. Certainly his resurrection had already made him a popular hero of sorts.

It was a shame the elves hadn't been able to offer a more definitive explanation for that fantastic occurrence. However, it seemed increasingly likely that Mistress Tauriel had played a bigger role in the matter than Gandalf had previously supposed, though the precise nature of that role was still in question. The aura of power the wizard had sensed around Kíli reminded him, in potency if not in quality, of the charge that hung in the air after he'd wrought his own work upon earthly matter, aided by the Ring of Fire. For this reason, he'd studied Tauriel closely when they traveled together, but in all that time, he could find no evidence that she bore a Ring.

One day he must bring her before the rest of the White Council, who were by now quite intrigued to examine her. The dwarves, too, understandably wanted answers about the elf maid's part in the strangest mystery of their time. However, Gandalf had more pressing matters to attend to at present than satisfying their curiosity.

This Enemy attack on Kíli was most distressing, an ominous portent of Sauron's resurgence in Middle-earth. If the Dark Lord had regained a stronghold somewhere, it was imperative that he be found and rooted out. Or if, as Gandalf suspected, he was not yet strong enough to launch an attack himself and had instead persuaded someone powerful to carry it out for him, that person or persons must also be found before they attacked someone more vulnerable than the King of Erebor now was.

The wizard nodded at the stableboy who approached with his horse. He was glad to see the animal well fed and rested, for they must make haste.

* * *

As he mounted his steed in the courtyard, Saruman finally permitted himself a grimace of pure, undisguised rage. How he loathed that insolent young upstart of a dwarf! He hated that the mountain rat had survived his attack, he hated that this latest spawn of Durin was practically indestructible, and he hated that there was nothing he could do about it. Galadriel had been gallingly correct, as usual: Saruman would not attack the little King under the Mountain again. He'd spent himself in that first assault, and he couldn't afford to repeatedly drain his power without good reason. "Spiritually vigorous" though this Kíli might be, he was not, after all, the reincarnation of Durin; he would not be the one to unite the dwarven world into an unstoppable force beneath the banner of an everlasting kingdom. He _would,_ however, be very hard to kill. Thus, Saruman knew he must concede this battle with the dwarf in order to win the war for Middle-earth.

"Off so soon then, old friend?"

Saruman forced a placid, close-lipped smile and turned toward the _clip-clop_ of Gandalf's mount. "I am needed at home in Isengard. I was fortunate to get away at all. And you . . . are headed out West?"

Gandalf compressed his lips and raised his bristly brows. "I think Lindon has seen enough of me this decade."

"Ah, yes. Didn't you ever come across Glorfindel?"

"No, I did not," Gandalf said with one of those piercing looks that made Saruman's skin prickle.

"A pity. I would've sworn I heard he was in the Grey Havens."

Gandalf said nothing.

"Where are you off to, then? I'll ride with you a league or two."

"I do not think we are going in the same direction, though your company is ever welcome. I go north to Gundabad, then to Dol Guldur, and on to Lothlórien, where I shall report my findings when we reconvene."

"And just what do you expect to find in those forsaken lands?" Saruman scoffed. "Some poor, crippled specimen of an orc not fit to be marched to his death in the Battle of Five Armies?"

Gandalf scowled and nudged his mount closer. "Young Kíli was attacked by an agent of Sauron," he hissed. "There's no point in pretending otherwise. Should you continue to lock yourself away in that tower of yours and ignore the world, soon enough the world will come to _you_. And what will you do then? I would ensure that the Enemy has not crawled back beneath our sight lines to retake one or more of his strongholds. And if he's corrupted a servant to enact his foul plans, that villain must be rooted out! You may come with me or not, as you please."

Saruman's back went rigid. The audacity! The Grey would never have dared speak to his superior with such brass a mere century ago. Surely he was under the influence of the Master Ring! This excursion to Sauron's old haunts was in all probability a cover for Gandalf's real destination, the Shire, where he concealed the Ring until it suited him to proclaim himself Lord of All. Quite likely he'd enlisted the redheaded she-elf to guard his prized possession whilst she remained partly or wholly ignorant of its significance. This might've seemed a farfetched theory to the other members of the White Council, but what Saruman had not shared with his companions as they fawned over the little Longbeard was that their pet's "bright spirit" fairly glowed with Ring energy. Though this energy was not visible to the eye, as soon as the White Wizard had come within twenty feet of the resurrected dwarf king, he'd felt its magnetic pull as surely as he'd felt the pull of the Dark Lord when he'd gazed into the _palantír._ He knew then, without question, that the redheaded she-elf had been in possession of a very powerful Ring, and it was this Ring that had revived the mountain rat and imbued him with such extraordinary (and undeserved) vitality.

At first, Saruman had wondered if anyone else could sense the residue of Ring magic, but none had mentioned it as they debated their favorite theories of the dwarf's "reawakening." On the other hand, their very avoidance of the subject suggested that one or more of them were fully aware of it and wished to steer the conversation in the opposite direction. Saruman himself had employed this tactic. Perhaps, he thought, he'd been too quick to assume that Gandalf was the only one who coveted the Ruling Ring. After yesterday's maneuvering in the throne room, the head of the White Council suspected that he might have more competition among the elves than he'd anticipated. Galadriel, in particular, was a quiet one, but behind that self-controlled veneer lurked an uncontrollable lust for power, he was certain of it. Some might have said the same of him, true, but he was Saruman, foremost of the Istari and the highest authority on the Rings in Middle-earth. He stood alone and apart from his peers, as the One Ring stood alone and apart from all others. Only he was qualified to guard it and to wield it to good purpose, which was why he must discover where Gandalf had hidden it and take it into his own safekeeping. And the first place he intended to search for it was on the person of one young ginger Wood Elf.

Saruman knew he must see to it that his fellow mage followed through on the pretense of tracking Sauron and his agent north, for the old fool would not find the Dark Lord, but he also must not find the agent who even now stood right under his nose. Moreover, he must be kept _away_ from the Shire and the Master Ring—as far away as possible! Fortunately, Saruman understood his junior's fear of failure, the intense shame he'd felt when he'd fallen to Sauron at Dol Guldur and had to be rescued by the rest of the White Council. His pride had been wounded when Radagast bore him away on a sled, exhausted and broken, whilst his elder drove Sauron into the East with skill and confidence. It would not be so difficult to goad him into another attempt to prove himself against the Enemy.

Saruman's horse seated him a bit higher than Gandalf, and he used this advantage to look down his nose at the younger wizard with an air of injury. "I've no need to go gallivanting about with you, friend, just to prove that Sauron is in the East, where I left him to wallow in his defeat. To be frank, it grieves me that you've so little faith in my ability to properly dispatch an enemy."

There! The memory of Dol Guldur was in Gandalf's eyes, and he looked appropriately humbled by his own failure and his superior's success.

"I suppose you think Gondor installed me in the greatest military fortress of Middle-earth so that I could keep house? In fact, I've no time for aimless wandering, as the people of Gondor have entrusted me with important work. But, go hunt demons if you must. Perhaps, in another two years, you may stumble upon Glorfindel."

That was a low blow, Saruman knew, for his own word had led Gandalf astray two years prior. But Gandalf deserved it, the deceitful wretch, and Saruman was pleased when his barb was received with the drawn brows and slack jaw of one who'd felt its sting.

The White Wizard turned his horse away, knowing full well that the Grey was stewing behind him. "You make light of me now," he heard Gandalf call after him grimly, "but you ignore what I've said at your own peril. A life of wandering may not afford one much respect, but it provides far-ranging views, sometimes of things to come. The evidence of evil accumulates around us but, like flakes of snow, seems insubstantial until it forms an impassable snowbank. The blizzard will soon be upon us!"

Saruman smirked to imagine the old fool shaking an impotent fist at his back, then twisted in his saddle. Now that he'd weakened his inferior by stirring up old insecurities, it was time to draw on his own power of persuasion and slide it like a dagger between those chinks in the other's resistance. "If you can bring the Council more than insubstantial flakes of snow, evidence that won't melt away at the slightest touch—say another Morgul blade or the like from Dol Guldur—you will hear no further protest from me, friend. I will bow to your better judgement, step aside to your leadership, and consent to whatever plan of attack you've in mind. Therefore, I strongly suggest you scour every inch of Gundabad and Dol Guldur for this evidence until you've found it."

That should do it: an appeal to Gandalf's irresistible desire to prove himself to his peers. Nay, to surpass and command them. For anyone who was compelled by the Master Ring was, above all, compelled by lust for power. In a moment more, the Grey would succumb to his lust and set off to comb abandoned ground for evidence that did not exist. Quite probably, he could occupy himself that way for years whilst the White set his plans in motion undisturbed! And so thinking, the White trotted down the mountain, chuckling softly to himself. Now he had only to find that unwitting ringbearer, the redheaded snippet . . .

Thus far, Saruman had lost every agent he'd sent to the Shire. Every time he passed the _palantír_ _,_ untouched in almost a year and gathering dust beneath its covering, he longed to use it just one more time, just for a moment, to get a glimpse of the she-elf. It would be so much speedier, so much simpler to locate her that way. Yet he did not dare, for when he'd watched the little runt in Erebor, so too had he been watched; he could sense it. And Saruman would not tolerate being watched like some household slave! He was chief of the Istari, and on this earth, he answered to no one! So, he'd begun instead to give serious consideration to his once fanciful idea of an orcish half-breed to do his bidding, a creature with the wiles of a man but the strength and endurance of an orc. Should he succeed in breeding that creature, it would be robust enough to survive the trek west, yet clever enough to ferret out an elf who didn't wish to be found.

Saruman's only question now was how to practically accomplish his goal. He doubted he could persuade a human male to lie with a female orc since even the ugliest of men expected a modicum of feminine charm in a mate. Therefore, he would probably have to cross a male orc with a human woman. The half-breed he sought could, perhaps, be sired by a descendant of one of the orcish survivors of Osgiliath and birthed by the Dunlending wench who cooked his meals. She had a face only a mother could love, but those rapacious orcs would bed anything with two legs that moved. Besides, she also had a good sturdy frame that might realistically withstand the delivery of the beast, and if it didn't, well, he'd give the next woman to a smaller Misty Mountain Goblin. Their offspring wouldn't be as close to invincible as he'd like, but everyone had to start somewhere. A goblin-man was as good a start as any.

* * *

The High Elves stayed five days in the Lonely Mountain. For Kíli, that was five days too many.

Under other conditions, the King of Erebor would've delighted in conducting the Lord of Rivendell and the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien on a grand tour of the kingdom, proud to display the inner workings that his great-grandfather Thrór had been too distrustful to let elven eyes glimpse on their previous visits. Weaving through the busy residential quarters or standing on the green marble deck of the Three Diamond Bridge, which was still in its scaffolding but afforded an unparalleled view of the River Running as it tumbled down the Little Gorge, he would've been excited to ask what they remembered of the city prior to the Desolation and how the reconstruction efforts of the current Restoration compared. In the drill hall, in the presence of these esteemed warrior lords, the archer king would've been gratified to watch General Dwalin lead the army, now three thousand dwarrow strong, in the fist-swinging sunrise salute called Durin's Axe and, later, in the corresponding sundown salute, Durin's Hammer. In the craft halls, he would've tried not to smile when delicate elven hands fumbled at wind-up dolls and music boxes, suddenly clumsy next to Bofur's thick, stumpy fingers that knew exactly what to do.

 _But Tauriel . . ._

Had things been different, Kíli would eagerly have taken the High Elves on a journey through the mountain along with the gold ordered for Rivendell. With Bombur in tow to explain the mechanics, he would've demonstrated, with great pleasure and animation, how ore was first carted up the railway from the mines, then ground beneath a massive stone mill wheel, next fired in clay crucibles inside a row of smoke-belching, flame-spitting furnaces to separate out the dross, and finally—Kíli's favorite part—poured in a liquid gold waterfall into the waiting molds, where it would harden into bars of gleaming precious metal.

 _But Tauriel . . . Her secret smile when she thought no one watched. How she laughed without laughing! Her emerald eyes that outshone any treasure in Erebor alight with talk of the heavens, the moon and the stars . . ._

In another set of circumstances, the King under the Mountain would've relished the chance to show Lord Elrond where the heated water in his private bathing chamber came from. With a hint of irony, a bit of jesting, and no small sense of vindication, he would have traced it from its bubbling source in the Hall of Hot Springs, to the Cleansing Chamber where it was filtered over a bed of sand, up through the spiraling screw pump, and into the water main that snaked higher and higher, to the highest level of the city, from where it branched into numerous pipes including the one which fed the royal guest wing and Elrond's private bath.

 _But Tauriel . . . **His** star. Healing light and warmth flowing from her hands. Strong, competent hands that could slay an enemy without hesitation but lingered gentle on his wounded leg, his chest, his brow. Slender fingers closing round a promise given . . . _

And at some other time, Kíli would happily have marched their little procession up and up and up the winding staircase to the jewel of Erebor, the Lamp of Infinite Light, at the sight of which even elves could not disguise their admiration for the twelve-foot, six-ton, multifaceted glass lens suspended in the heart of the mountain, from whence the flame of its inner oil lamp, refracted and reflected to the power of ten million candles, cast highly focused beams through shafts that opened onto a multitude of halls and chambers, illuminating them in full with the light of a single spark.

But the conditions were what they were. Things were not different. There was no other set of circumstances, the time was now, and it was an antsy, distractible Kíli who played docent to Elrond, Galadriel, and Celeborn. He rushed through details, anxious to be on to the next sight, misheard questions as his mind drifted. He was never the rude or ill-tempered dwarf they probably feared at worst, but neither was he the lighthearted, quick-witted one they might've expected at best. He was present with them in body, but his mind, heart, and soul were far away, in starlight in another world.

Kíli could hardly believe it was real, that after nearly three years of constantly looking over his shoulder and starting awake in the middle of the night, _Erebor was safe_. He knew there was no longer anyone within the mountain who would raise a hand against him, and according to Gandalf and the elves, neither would anyone without. And even if someone dared try, Kíli was secure in the knowledge that, with his newfound strength and resilience, he could withstand the attack. Never again must he hide himself from the world, ruling Erebor in secret as though he'd gained the throne through some nefarious means.

But over and above that, never again would Tauriel need feel she must endanger her own life to protect his! In all likelihood, he was the one who could finally protect her if need be. There was no more reason for them to be apart! He could go to her now and fall on his knees, explain everything, and offer her his undying love and devotion if only she would return to Erebor as his queen! The flicker of excitement Kíli had tried to suppress for nigh on three years now blazed within him, and his mind churned as he tested and discarded the words he would say when he knelt before her. Not since the day he'd turned his love away from the mountain had he needed to muster such self-restraint, for if the high-born elven lords had not demanded his attention, he would already have been on his way to her.

As it was, after several days of touring the realm, there were still negotiations to make and treaties to sign. Elrond was pleased with the gems and precious metals he'd ordered for Rivendell and desired a more permanent trade agreement, and even the self-sufficient Lothlórien Elves were persuaded to order some of these, as well. In addition, since Lothlórien and Erebor were both kingdoms east of the Misty Mountains and could come to each other's aid in time of war, a military alliance was struck between them, the first of its kind.

"Needless to say, the centuries of enmity between our races have not favored military cooperation, and I freely admit I've done nothing to improve relations," said Celeborn at the council table. "The wounds of Doriath run deep."

Kíli nodded, unable to truly understand the rage and anguish over a stolen necklace no dwarf alive had seen but fully capable of empathizing with anyone who bore the physical and mental scars of warfare, in any age.

"But," Celeborn continued, "we now know a great evil gathers its forces in Arda. Its assault upon King Kíli must be interpreted as a declaration of war against all Free Peoples. Lothlórien is a blessed land, a refuge from all that is dark and wicked. But to them who are much blessed, much responsibility is also given to bestow the same blessings upon others. Over these five days, my lord, you've trusted us with unprecedented access to your fair city, and as it is our wish that your people would continue in peace and prosperity even as ours do, we declare Lothlórien ready to stand with you against any threat to that peace."

Kíli was heartened that negotiations proceeded so smoothly, but throughout their talks, if the elves noticed how his fingers absently drummed the table or how his leg bounced with barely contained energy, they were too courteous to call attention to it. And that was for the best since, except for the times when Dwalin was there to give him a swift kick under the table, Kíli was unaware of his own habits. However, as the elves at last took their leave at the Gate of Erebor, Elrond said to Kíli, "You are a credit to your people, my lord, but I see that you've a journey ahead of you in days to come. Do not be discouraged by the road that is before you, for as it led you once to the door of your ancestral Erebor, so now shall it lead you _through_ the door of your home and into its heart."

Elrond bowed briefly, and Kíli returned the gesture with a quiet but confident smile. These elves spoke ever in riddles, but he was beginning to find it endearing, and this time he thought he knew what upcoming journey Elrond foresaw.

Galadriel, too, paused before the dwarven ruler. "We are much encouraged by what has transpired in Erebor since its reclamation. We thank our host for his sincere and cordial reception, for his hospitality, and for his commitment to peace. It is indeed an honor to be in the presence of such an esteemed personage."

Kíli blushed, for she had quoted the embarrassing blunder with which he'd received her into his "esteemed presence" and turned it into a genuine compliment, a high one coming from the Lady of Light.

"We look forward to strengthening the ties between our races," she said, raising her eyebrows significantly, "and extend to you and your house our invitation to Lothlórien." And then, speaking directly into his mind: _"But you must bring your red-haired elleth with you when you come. I would meet this Tauriel."_

"It would be my pleasure," Kíli said with a bow, laying his hand on his heart, and those who saw how he beamed simply assumed he did so at the prospect of seeing the Golden Wood.

* * *

 _Well, that was an unexpected success!_

Lord Elrond smiled to himself as he passed through the Gate of Erebor. He'd entered this same way in fear of finding a stubborn, belligerent dwarf determined to be recognized by the world even if it should jeopardize his own kingdom and instead had found a flexible, diplomatic one committed to the success and security of his realm. In all his years (and they were many), the elven lord had never felt so truly welcome in a dwarven kingdom as he'd felt in Erebor under the rule of King Kíli. In truth, he was humbled to admit he'd never _seen_ so much of a dwarven kingdom until now and was as impressed as any mortal a fraction of his age witnessing its golden grandeur for the first time.

Oh, perhaps not all the dwarves had been quite as welcoming or as ready to put their closely guarded city on display. The general, Dwalin, had a hawk eye that was fixed on the visitors at all times, and the Princess Dís had made polite conversation at dinner but nothing more. Yet it was their young king's policy that had set the tone of the visit and created a favorable atmosphere for negotiation.

Though not yet eighty turns of the stars, Kíli possessed an ease and grace with people that belied his age. Anyone could see he was still a bit high-strung, but that would calm in time, and fortunately for him, he'd time in abundance now. Meanwhile, he was naturally generous, sincere, and broad-minded in a way that few of his kind ever became even with the wisdom of old age. The only hint of distrust or reticence that Elrond had seen in him was that although his spirit was visibly bonded, Kíli had not presented his queen to his guests, choosing to keep her cloistered somewhere in the mountain. Dwarves were known to be highly protective of their dwarrowdams, but royals such as Dís were usually on hand for formal occasions, so Elrond found this secrecy bewildering. However, many of the ways of Durin's Folk were strange to the Eldar, and even the Lord of Imladris couldn't claim familiarity with all of them. In any event, it would've been improper to call attention to the queen's absence when she'd not been introduced, so Elrond had decided not to question the matter further nor to condemn his host for actions he hadn't the knowledge to evaluate in their proper context. He would gladly give the benefit of the doubt to someone as honest and fair-minded as Kíli was proving himself to be.

Elrond thought about the journey he'd foreseen for this most unusual of dwarves. As with most prophecy, this vision had wavered before him, hazy and indistinct. He knew it would be a long, tiring journey, one that would test Kíli's will and strength of heart. But he also knew if Kíli did not complete the journey, he would never find fulfillment. For whilst it was clear that the King under the Mountain was entirely devoted to Erebor, Elrond had sensed that he did not yet feel at home in his own city, that something was missing from it which caused it to feel hollow and empty to him. It was only by leaving it, going there (wherever _there_ was) and back again, that he could reenter it as the seat not just of his ancestors but of his heart. And so, intuiting this, Elrond had felt the need to offer a word of encouragement that Kíli could hold onto along the road should his will flag, his heart fail. If such a time came, the elven lord hoped the youthful dwarf's tremendous resilience of spirit would fortify him in heart as well as in body.

In the courtyard, a handful of young grooms stood by with the horses that belonged to the small retinue from Imladris. As one of them attached a late-arriving saddlebag, Elrond noticed that his hair was like the crimson rays that set the Bruinen afire at sundown. The Princess Dís was also a redhead, he recalled, though her coloring was a shade or two darker and more subdued. It seemed a common enough trait among dwarves, much more so than it was among elves. In fact, Elrond hadn't seen an elf with such ruddy coloring since the Second Age and then only in the descendants of his great-great uncle's wife, Nerdanel. They were long gone from Middle-earth, all (may the stars never fade on their memories), and yet . . .

Elrond remembered the redheaded Nando, Tauriel, and wished as he'd done many times before that he'd been at home to greet her when she and Mithrandir had passed through Imladris several years ago. He and the wizard had spent many hours discussing her since. Apparently, she possessed a remarkable native talent for the healing arts, a rare gift among her Woodland people, who generally sent to Imladris or Lothlórien for Noldorin healers. Even presuming this young warrior maid had not the power to restore anyone to life by her own grace, the mere fact that she could be the conduit for such power said much about her innate potential.

Could it be . . . was it possible that Tauriel of the Woodland was _not_ of the Woodland by blood? That she carried such potential, along with her ruddy coloring, as a remnant of a Noldorin house that was once mighty upon the earth? After all, it was in the Greenwood that—

 _Ul!_ It was an outrageous notion really.

But . . . was it any more outrageous than the resurrection of a fallen dwarf? If only he could've looked upon this Tauriel and seen if there was anything about her _fëa_ that called to his in kinship!

Alas, Mithrandir had parted with her somewhere in the West, and the elf lord could not be away from Imladris for six moons or more to go in pursuit of her. He'd asked Mithrandir to escort her back to the Last Homely House when next he went west, but with the shadow of the Dark Lord lurking in the East, the wizard was needed on this side of the Misty Mountains for the present time.

Clearly Elrond would have to call upon the reserves of patience for which he was legendary. If only, he thought with a rather human smirk, it was as easy for him to live up to the legends as it was for the Free Peoples to invent them!

* * *

 _Patience!_ Kíli's last shred of it was dangling by a thread, and it was going . . . going . . . gone! The minute the Gate of Erebor had closed behind the last of the elven company, he turned to his chief advisor.

"Well, that was an unexpected success!" Balin exclaimed.

"Oh yes," Kíli grinned. _In more ways than one._ And then: "Master Balin, I must entrust the city to your safekeeping for the next fortnight."

"And why is that, m'lord?"

Now Kíli's grin was ear to ear, and he fairly bounced on the balls of his feet. "I'm off to the Woodland this afternoon!"

* * *

ul—no

A/N: Up next—Kíli and Thranduil face off in the Woodland, and (if I can squeeze it into the same chapter) Bilbo gets an invitation that has Tauriel in a tizzy!


	29. Chapter 29 - A Tangled Web

A/N: As always, many thanks go to those who took a moment to review or to follow and/or favorite this fic after reading the last chapter. Your support and encouragement are very much appreciated! :)

Thanks also to Moonraykir for catching my errors, grammatical, historical, and geographical, and giving me great feedback on my ideas. :)

Guest 1/25: Thank you so much! It's really an honor to hear that because I know exactly what it's like to feel obsessed with a fic like that _—_ it happened to me just recently, as a matter of fact _—_ and to know that someone would feel that way about something _I_ wrote is, to me, the highest kind of compliment. So huge thanks for sharing that with me! :D Thanks also for having faith in the happy ending to this story! It's not close to done by a long shot, but we're getting closer with each chapter, and actually, Kili and Tauriel will be together and happy in their relationship well before the end. (Like I said, it's a long one!) You're right that they'll need some time to resolve their issues when they first reunite, and of course Dis and some of the dwarves will make trouble at first, but check back to Chap. 15  & 16 for some clues as to how their differences might be resolved. Thank you so much again for reading and reviewing! :)

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 29**

 **A Tangled Web**

* * *

 _September, T.A. 2944—Woodland Realm_

The Mirkwood was far easier to cross when you were prepared for the spiders.

So Kíli thought when he heard a telltale rustle overhead and issued the now familiar command for "weapons up." In unison, six swords thrust up into the air in the nick of time to impale six thick, furry bodies descending from above. The seventh spider swung in from the right but, at the height of its arc, flailed, dropped out of the air, and splattered on the ground, its silken lifeline cut by Kíli's precise shot. In a split second, the dwarven archer nocked again, and the eighth and ninth spiders fell also, downed by the same arrow as it pierced the tiny brain of one and lodged in the heart of the next. "How many, then?" Kíli twisted round in the saddle, an expectant gleam in his eye as Masters Frithr and Rathi, Ori, and four of his personal guard took stock of the dead.

"I've got half a dozen now!" Ori crowed.

"This here's nineteen fer me," said one of the guards.

"Two and twenty," said another.

A chattering in the treetops.

"My lord, look out!" Master Frithr cried.

But Kíli had already drawn his long-sword and thrust it upward in one clean motion, skewering one, two, three of the vile creatures as they plummeted in quick succession, one atop the other. For an awful moment, they squealed and convulsed on the blade, twenty-four hairy legs twitching, then expired.

After a moment of stunned silence, one of the guards scratched his black-bearded chin. "Yer Majesty's got yerself a shish-kebab!"

"I reckon Bombur'll cook that up into a real delicacy for you if I ask him nicely." Ori caught himself just short of elbowing his king.

"Do that, Cousin, and you'll be the one eating fried spider legs for the next month," Kíli fired back in good humor and counted the carcasses as he kicked them off his blade with the heel of his boot. "Twenty-two . . . twenty-three . . . _twenty-four_." They thudded to the ground, and Kíli's pony, accustomed to this dance by now, sidestepped them with a mere nudge of his master's thigh. A grin broke over the young king's face. "Right, time to pay up, you lot!"

"But I got me twenty-fourth, too! Run off he did, but he left his legs!" A ruddy-cheeked, goggle-eyed guard brandished a pair of spindly appendages, severed but still twitching, and there were chortles all around.

"Blast it, I was at twenty-three! If that trio of overgrown insects hadna fallen outta the sky at the vera same time and happened to land on His Majesty's blade—"

Frithr, ever the peacemaker, held up his hands. "Now, Sigrin, Bítri, we wagered on the first to slay two dozen Mirkwood spiders. King Kíli won fair and square."

But the grumbling and complaining were all in good fun, and no sooner had Kíli raised a palm than the first bag of coppers sailed into it. "I can buy General Dwalin's beer for a whole year with this," he chuckled as he caught the fifth bag, thinking of his own lost wager after he'd botched his greeting to the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien.

"Next bag o' coin's on the first to slay fifty," Sigrin said, and Ori rallied the small company, saying, "At this rate, we'll clear the Mirkwood of spiders before we're halfway to Thranduil's Halls, isn't that right? Durin's Folk'll show that _kakhifi_ Mirkwood guard how it's done!"

Even as Ori's declaration was met with hurrahs, Kíli fell silent. Like most dwarrow, his younger cousin viewed the Mirkwood guard solely as captors worthy of contempt, and Kíli didn't blame him for that. But, for his own part, he couldn't think of the Silvan Elves who patrolled the forest without thinking of their captain, his _amrâlimê_ , and so he couldn't wish them ill or hope his own company's presence in their land would cause trouble for them. Happily, he did not think it would, seeing as the Dwarves of Erebor had a legitimate reason to be there this time, which even his mother, Balin, Dwalin, and the rest of the Royal Council had recognized immediately when he presented it to them: the reestablishment of his people's right of passage through the Mirkwood.

Currently, Longbeards returning to Erebor were forced to either skirt the Elvenking's territory, adding more than a month to their journey, or trespass, risking imprisonment as Thorin's company had done. Over the last three years, Kíli and his councilors had been distressed to learn that, in order to avoid discovery, some of their folk had wandered off the path through the wood, never to be seen or heard from again. Now that Kíli was no longer obligated to remain in isolation, it was urgent that the rulers of both races meet and come to an agreement that would allow the dwarves safe passage to their homeland. So Kíli had said, and so he believed.

And if certain advisors suspected their king of harboring some other, more personal interest in the Mirkwood, they hadn't the evidence to prove it.

Of course, the jig would be up as soon as he rode through the Gate of Erebor with Tauriel at his side! But let them rant and rail about it as much as they liked once she was there; they'd no power to stop him from making her his queen, and after they got used to her, he was positive they'd see not just an elf but the brave, true, tender-hearted lass he'd fallen in love with. Kíli grinned, picturing the happy moment when the two of them would ride abreast, he on his black pony and she on her white horse, clasping hands as they entered the mountain together for the first time.

But then he frowned, realizing Tauriel would have to lean far down from her horse to reach his hand, which would look awkward and silly, not at all befitting the King and Queen of Erebor. So he closed his eyes and replaced that vision with one of her seated on his pony behind him, her arms clasped about his waist. He could almost feel long, ruby red tendrils feathering his cheek and tumbling over his shoulder as she pressed close against him. Oh yes, he liked that idea much better!

But that was assuming he could even convince her to leave the Mirkwood with him. The vision faded, and his heart plunged as he wondered yet again if Lady Galadriel had been right about the bond she'd sensed between him and the elf maiden he loved. She'd said that if he was bonded to Tauriel, Tauriel must also be bonded to him—forever. But what if she'd been wrong? What if the bond hadn't . . . hadn't _taken_ for Tauriel because he was a dwarf? What if she didn't love him anymore or couldn't forgive him for sending her away even if he _had_ done it to keep her safe? In Laketown, she'd said there was nothing more than friendship between her and that Prince Powder Puff, but what if she'd changed her mind and fallen for him after all? Lost in his dark musings, Kíli didn't hear the approaching chatter.

"Sire, on yer left!"

Kíli snapped to attention and, with a cold horror, saw the grandfather of all spiders swooping in on the diagonal. How in the Wild could something of such bulk move so fast? "Weapons up," he commanded, but even as he reached for an arrow, he knew he'd missed his chance. The spider was too close, its descent too rapid even if his arrow flew true. Then his hand was on the hilt of his sword, but it was too late, and he—

Mouth agape to reveal fangs dripping with venom, the spider hissed in Kíli's face, the stench of its breath revolting. Then the life went out of its dull, beady eyes, and with a final quiver, it crashed to the ground.

Slowly, Kíli looked from the shaft that protruded out of the dead spider's back to the tall, lithe figure in a green uniform pointing another arrow straight at his chest.

 _Tauriel!_ Giddy, nervous excitement sped his heart, expanded his lungs, and heightened every one of his senses to fever pitch.

But no. This swarthy Wood Elf was a male (or so Kíli thought; he'd been known to be wrong), and in an instant, the dwarven archer had scanned the whole troop and knew that an unmistakable scarlet head was not among them.

Even as his chest constricted in disappointment, relief loosened his limbs. As he rode, Kíli had tried to plan what he would say when he came face to face with the one who, for nearly three years, had haunted his memories and sweetened his dreams. But he'd never been much for memorizing grand orations, preferring to speak from the heart, so at last he'd resolved to say whatever the moment moved him to say. However, since he wanted to say it to her without an audience, maybe it was for the best that Tauriel wasn't on duty in this neck of the woods.

"Please, don't mind us," said the elf who aimed his arrow at Kíli while his fellow guards aimed theirs at the rest of the dwarven company. Without looking back, Kíli knew his traveling companions had their weapons drawn as well. "You're clearing the Mirkwood of spiders before you're halfway to the Elvenking's halls, are you not? Won't you show us how it's done?"

At this mockery of Ori's earlier boast, Kíli heard a sharp intake of breath from one or more of the dwarves, but his own face registered no surprise that these elves had overheard their conversation from what must've been several miles away. He knew from experience with one of their own just how acute their hearing was. "If you'd like to see our handiwork, check the path behind us. We left at least a hundred bodies in our wake," he said.

Another elf in a long green cape gave a nod, and two guards sprinted off in the direction from which the dwarves had come. Kíli guessed, from this elf's air of authority, that he was the senior officer, a guess which was confirmed a moment later when he ordered the dwarves to drop their weapons.

"Drop yours," Bítri huffed.

"You're the trespasser here, _naug_ ," sneered the dark fellow with his arrow trained on Kíli. "Too many of your kind have been spotted in this wood of late. But do go on and shake your sword at me so I've reason to make an example of you."

Kíli lifted a gloved hand just high enough for his party to see without giving the elves cause for alarm. "Stand by," he said and saw the Dwarvish swords lower out of the corner of his eye, albeit with grumbling. He also saw a flare of awareness in the senior officer's gaze, one leader's recognition of another.

The senior officer came forward then to stand slightly ahead of his guards and arched a thin, pointed eyebrow at Kíli. "This is King Thranduil's land, and you are trespassing on it, an offense punishable by imprisonment. Give me one good reason why I should not arrest you now."

The officer's self-assurance was replaced by surprise when Kíli reached into his overcoat and withdrew a folded parchment, which he extended toward his accuser. "I believe this should explain it."

As though he didn't consider the parchment worth his effort to read, the officer tipped his head toward his subordinate, who lowered his bow and snatched Kíli's offering from his outstretched hand. He glanced warily from the parchment to Kíli, then back again. "This is the Elvenking's seal upon this missive."

That caught the officer's attention, but still he made no move to take the missive from his underling. The dark-haired dwarf nodded once, and with a last distrustful squint, the guard slid a finger beneath the broken seal and unfolded the parchment.

Kíli allowed a few moments for him to read it, then said, "As you can see, we were invited here as guests."

The guard's brow furrowed in irritation, and he turned the parchment over as if he might've missed something. "This invitation is addressed to the King under the Mountain."

Instinctively, Kíli sat up straighter and lifted his chin. "I am he."

"You're not Dáin Ironfoot!" the elf blurted. "I faced him on the front line at Erebor before Gundabad arrived and turned the battle. My arrow was pointed directly at his ceaselessly flapping mouth. I'd recognize him anywhere, and you are most certainly _not_ he!"

"No. I am Kíli, sister-son of Thorin, known as Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór."

And, in that moment, due to something in his tone or bearing, someone might well have mistaken him for Thorin Oakenshield. Without a word, the senior officer had already taken the invitation from his subordinate and was skimming it hastily. However, this was clearly lost on the swarthy archer. "The sister-sons of Thorin Oakenshield are dead. They died with him in the Battle of Five. You are a liar, an impostor, a mere—"

" _Farn_ , Iaenir!" the officer barked, and the swarthy archer said no more, though he glared at the company of dwarves. The officer fixed his penetrating gaze on Kíli. "If you are who you say you are, you've enjoyed our hospitality before, along with Oakenshield's band of exiles."

"Hospitality? Is that what we're calling it now? Then what do you say we call this a welcoming party and you escort us to the palace?" It was the only merriment Kíli allowed himself under the circumstances, but he simply couldn't resist. Hoots and chortles went up from his traveling companions.

The officer didn't find it half as funny. Just then, the two guards whom he'd sent off into the forest bounded back into view, and he ordered their report.

"The dwarf spoke true, sir. The path is littered with spider bodies—dozens of them."

This announcement was received with satisfied grunts and exclamations from the vindicated Longbeards, and Kíli had to try very hard to keep a smug smile off his face.

The officer waited till the chatter had died down, then took a step closer to Kili, who even seated on his pony was still several heads shorter. He held out the invitation, and Kili accepted it back, not without a look of wariness.

"We will escort you to King Thranduil's Halls. But as you say you've been here before, if you are not telling the truth of who you are, the Elvenking will know it and put an end to your charade. And then you will be arrested not only for trespassing but for impersonating a sovereign."

Kíli met the other's eyes unflinchingly. "I'm doing neither, so I've nothing to fear. Lead on."

As he clucked to his pony to follow the elves, the dwarven king could only hope Thranduil _didn't_ remember him from their brief, unpleasant encounters, which mostly consisted of Kíli and his kin shouting Khuzdul insults at him from atop the battlements of Erebor. In truth, if anyone could vouch for him, it wasn't Thranduil but Thranduil's captain of the guard. But after the way they'd parted, would she vouch for him still? The prospect of Tauriel's rejection, more than anything else, was what chilled him to the bone.

Kíli was thankful the elven guards were ahead of him and couldn't see his throat work as he swallowed. _I've nothing to fear_ , he repeated to himself.

* * *

But if he had nothing to fear, Kíli had much to be in awe of as two of the Elvenking's guards led him through palatial caverns, dimly lit with lanterns that seemed suspended in mid-air by magic, gracefully carved stone pillars indistinguishable from the trunks of living trees. The sound of rushing water was ever present, and where this water was visible, it streamed down in fine silver ribbons, half veiled in its own mist. His dwarven feet were nimble enough to negotiate the steep angles of stairways and bridges, but where these were direct, utilitarian routes in Erebor, here in the Silvan realm they branched and spiraled delicately like meandering brooks or unfurling stems. Kíli had barely glimpsed this marvel of a place the last time he'd been here, when Tauriel and her guards had marched all but Thorin down to the dungeon and thrown them in prison cells, and the view from a prison cell was much the same, he guessed, wherever you went.

 _Tauriel._

Even if she'd taken him on a personal tour of Thranduil's Halls, Kíli doubted he would've paid attention to any of it, so overwhelmed had he been in her presence then. His heart was thundering now, his palms clammy just thinking that he might see her coming round the next bend!

But what if he did? Would she stop and stare, eyes going wide, then break into a joyful smile, knowing he'd come back to her at last? Or would she tilt her chin up and brush past him as though she'd never even known his name? This waiting and wondering was almost worse than a flat-out rejection. At least then he'd know where he stood and could start working to win her back.

At last they arrived at the short bridge to the Elvenking's throne. Tauriel was nowhere to be seen, a fact which Kíli hardly knew whether to be grieved or grateful for, but the Elvenking himself was impossible to miss, seated with legs elegantly crossed between an absurd pair of antlers that looked as though they belonged on an elk the size of an oliphaunt. Otherwise, Thranduil was much as Kíli remembered him, fair and sparkling like the Elves of Lothlórien but with a haughty demeanor that the High Elves didn't seem to need in order to command attention. A spiky crown dominated the royal's attire, and Kíli found himself thankful that _he_ wasn't required to parade round in a nest of dead twigs like that. Mahal, it looked as if Thranduil could lower his head like an elk and poke someone's eye out with that thing!

"Leave us," was Thranduil's imperious command as soon as his guards halted before the throne. Without a word, they bowed in unison, turned on their heels, and marched off, leaving Kíli alone with the inscrutable ruler. He'd left the rest of his company in a receiving room, and he bloody well hoped they'd be there by the time he got back.

Thranduil's ice blue eyes took their measure of the dwarf before him. Except for the motion of one foot, which made lazy circles in the air, the Grey Elf was perfectly still. Kíli did his best to wait out the scrutiny, but eventually he shifted a bit, and it was then that the Elvenking spoke, his voice low and rich but with a whispery quality that belied his immortal strength. "Welcome, Kíli, sister-son of Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór. Or . . . King under the Mountain is it now?"

Kíli bowed his head in acknowledgement, guarded despite the official recognition. Maybe that was because of a subtle warning in Thranduil's purr that sounded less like recognition and more like a reminder of his long, contentious history with Kíli's forefathers.

"I must admit which one of you now bears the title is sometimes difficult to recall."

The dwarf king compressed his lips but let the dig slide, knowing it wasn't worth it to take the elf lord's bait. Instead, he met the cool stare with his own hot one, hoping to show without so many words that he wouldn't back down from a challenge.

A smile played about Thranduil's mouth, but there was nothing warm in it, either. "These unexpected visits are becoming tradition, it would seem. Do your folk always show up uninvited?"

"I was invited. In autumn of 2942, Your Majesty issued an invitation to the King of Erebor to attend you here in your halls. I've got the invitation with me if it's . . . difficult to recall."

Now it was Thranduil's turn to compress his lips.

"I just assumed," Kíli continued, "that an invitation from someone who's ruled his kingdom for more than two thousand years would not expire in two. But perhaps I was wrong to assume."

Thranduil lifted his chin so that he regarded his guest from beneath heavy lids and sniffed, "You need not show me the invitation; I recall it quite well. I assumed someone worthy to rule your kingdom would have the courtesy to reply before simply appearing in my throne room. But perhaps _I_ was wrong to assume."

 _Durin's beard_ , it would be hard to match wits with this one! The few thousand or so years he had on Kíli had seemingly taught him how to outmaneuver anyone.

"You've arrived at an opportune moment. I was just about to take some refreshment." The Elvenking stretched out a hand, and an attendant materialized with a goblet of wine. "Would you care for a drink as well?"

Before Kíli could say aye or nay, an attendant stood before him, too, and presented him with a glass of the burgundy liquid. He tried to be discreet about sniffing at it, but his lip curled a little in spite of himself.

"Is it not to your liking? This is a Second Age vintage from Esgaroth, you know." Thranduil contemplated the rare drink as he swirled it in his goblet. "But, then, you must recognize it well enough."

"I'm sorry to say I don't. I'm afraid my folk aren't much for wine."

"How strange. I should've thought you'd know it right off after traveling the Forest River in the barrel that contained it."

Heat flared within, and Kíli reddened to the tips of his ears even as his knuckles whitened on the stem of his glass. Without a word, he set the glass back on the tray, and the attendant withdrew. Balin's voice echoed in his mind: _Face of stone, lad. As stone does not move, neither shall you be moved._ A mantra for maintaining outward composure when the inward pressure grew unbearable. But one more insult to fuel this fire, and he would explode, invited or not. He could feel it.

"You may leave us. _And_ the wine."

The second order was more of an afterthought, and the attendant had to loop back around to set down his tray with the decanter before backing out bent at the waist. With the proud, fleet-footed grace of one of his elk, the lord of the Woodland Realm descended the stairs from his throne, not once catching or tripping on the steel gray robe and crimson cape that trailed behind him. He flicked a wrist free of his billowing sleeve, removed the stopper with a flourish, and tipped the decanter high over his goblet so that the wine cascaded in a dramatic waterfall, as though it were spilt enemy blood.

With the king's back turned, Kíli rolled his eyes. Why, he wondered, must every move this elf made be such a performance? Didn't he ever do anything unrehearsed? Anything spontaneous and from the heart? Or had he lived so long by now that he was just doing the same things over and over by rote?

"I know why you are here."

So he wanted to talk business. Right. Kíli cleared his throat to gain an extra second to make the mental shift, then said to Thranduil's back, "My people do not wish to trespass on your land. But as ever more of them come back to their rightful home in Erebor, the Mirk—"

Thranduil pivoted so that he stood in profile, eyes fixed upon the roots of a gigantic tree whose trunk reached up and up until it was lost somewhere aboveground, and spoke right over the dwarven king. "You've come in search of my erstwhile captain of the guard." He took a sip of his wine. "Tauriel."

For a moment, Kíli was so stunned that all he could focus on was how Thranduil pronounced her name: _Tauri-el_ , just as Galadriel had done, with the stress on the third syllable and the "r" trilled. The elven monarch spit it out as though it were the bitter aftertaste of his wine, which was disrespectful enough to change Kíli's cold wash of shock to a tingling burn of anger. "Do all you elves read minds without asking?" he demanded, though it came out sounding sulkier than he would've wished.

The Grey Elf made a _hmphing_ sound and looked upon the dwarf before him with a knowing smirk. "You've met the Lady Galadriel, then?" When Kíli bobbed his head once, Thranduil set his goblet down with a perfunctory _clink_ and clasped his hands behind his back. "Well, we cannot all possess her talents." He flashed a barely-there-and-gone grimace. "And I've no interest in the contents of your head."

"Then how did you know why I've come?"

"My young King Kíli, I did not need to read minds, as you put it, to see that my erstwhile captain had formed a most unusual bond with you when you lay dead on the watchtower. She keened over your body as only an elleth who has lost her soul's mate can do."

If there was a shadow of pain in Thranduil's eyes as he said this, Kíli barely noticed or cared, for the image of his Tauriel on Ravenhill, bent and broken at his side, was all he could see. She _had_ mourned him! Always that doubt had chipped away at his core, that niggling fear that she'd saved him out of duty, not love. But she'd loved him and mourned him—here was confirmation of it. And he, Kíli, was the one whose inexcusable weakness had caused her that pain! He'd failed her that day and every day since whilst he lived and hadn't been able to keep his promise.

"She would not give up trying to heal your wounds." Thranduil's tone was bitter, almost accusatory. "My son, Legolas, had to pull her off you so your people could prepare you for burial."

It was an effort for Kíli to keep his throat from constricting with sudden tears at the thought. "She saved me," he said thickly, ninety percent statement and ten percent question.

Thranduil's eyes raked the dwarven youth head to toe then, and he said with a hint of mockery, "It would appear so, as you are not here in a casket." He circled the shorter king slowly, considering. "On the contrary, you are the very picture of health. You shine like a burst of stars in the heavens. It almost _hurts_ to look at you."

Kíli ignored the sarcasm and the obvious jab about his outlandishly bright spirit. It meant nothing anymore. Tauriel, Tauriel was the one who meant everything. "I must see her. When can you take me to her?"

Even Thranduil's single-sided shrug was graceful. "I cannot." At Kíli's deep and immediate frown, he said, "She left these halls more than two years ago, perhaps four or five moons after your passing."

Suddenly, the last few minutes of dialogue, during which Kíli had blocked out all but that mournful image of his love, caught up with him, and he remembered that Thranduil had referred to her as his _erstwhile_ captain. The reason Kíli hadn't seen her on duty was that Tauriel was no longer in the Woodland! Dismay scooped the joyful anticipation from his heart in fast, heaping handfuls until he felt empty inside.

But she'd left _four or five months_ after his passing? That would be about the time she'd come to Erebor and found him alive! He'd thought she was there on a whim then, acting on her long-cherished desire to travel, as they'd talked about in Laketown. It simply hadn't occurred to him that she'd meant to leave her home in the Woodland for good, that if he turned her away from Erebor, she'd keep going and never look back. Not unless . . . not unless someone in the Mirkwood had done her harm. And he'd asked her if anyone had, but she'd denied it.

And yet . . . _why had she never gone back to the only home she'd ever known_? This King Thranduil spoke her beautiful name with such derision! What if she'd been protecting him or his son or someone else they favored when she'd said no one had harmed her, too afraid to tell the truth of whatever they'd done? Kíli clenched and unclenched his fists, feeling himself on the edge of explosion. "What did you do to her?" he demanded.

At this, the Elvenking's eyes widened and his jaw went slack, in surprise or offense Kíli couldn't tell. Perhaps both. "I gave her a place in my military after she deserted her office in my personal guard," he said in his eerie near-whisper. "I gave her a home after she betrayed my kingdom to aid and abet the escaped prisoners of an enemy realm." His voice rose as he continued until there was no trace of a whisper left in it. "I gave her a stay of execution and my full pardon after she committed high treason against her king! Do not blame me, _Your Majesty_ , for her failure to accept those gifts."

Kíli felt winded, this revelation a punch to the gut. Tauriel had never complained to him, but how had he been so blind not to realize that her acts of generosity and compassion to "the enemy" would have disastrous consequences for her among her own people? Of course she couldn't live in the Woodland after Laketown, after Erebor! She'd sacrificed her honor and standing, her right to hold her head up high in her native land _for him_ —and he'd sent her back there to suffer their abuse for it! Kíli wanted to be sick. "Where is she?" he grated.

"How should I know?" Thranduil plucked his wine goblet off the tray and began to pace in a swirl of glittering brocade. "Probably hunting spiders in Dol Guldur now that there's no one to prevent her taking such foolhardy risks. _If_ she's still in Middle-earth." He cast an unreadable sidelong glance toward the one who loved her. "Do you understand what it is for an elf to fade?"

Kíli sucked in his breath and nodded, wide brown eyes tracking every movement the other made. "Fading" was what Galadriel had warned him about!

"Your Tauriel was looking very wane and pale when she deserted the Silvan army, so I am told."

Thranduil's voice and face were so devoid of emotion that it was all Kíli could do not to pummel him till he showed some fear and pain for himself if not for her. The dwarven ruler's words came out tightly through his clenched jaw. "Maybe if you'd shown her just a bit of kindness and understanding, she wouldn't have left."

The Grey Elf's dark brows, so incongruous with his fair hair, shot up. "You think not? She left _you_ , didn't she?"

"She thought I was dead!"

"She doesn't know you are alive now?"

"Aye, but . . . " The young king flailed for words. "We had . . . a misunderstanding, and I told her to leave."

"And she left?" Thranduil snapped his fingers. "Just like that? Even though such separation could be fatal to her? Perhaps, in the end, she regretted the attachment so much that she welcomed death."

Kíli was mute, barely breathing and numb all over, for the Elvenking had given voice to his deepest fear, one that shook the very foundations of his faith in the love he shared with his _amrâlimê_. He and Tauriel had bonded, as Galadriel had called it, in a moment of reckless passion. Mahal knew she'd been ready to walk away the next morning before Kíli had practically forced his runestone into her hand! What if later she'd "regretted the attachment," especially after the way they'd quarreled? He closed his eyes and swallowed, throat working painfully. Was Thranduil just goading him, or would Tauriel really have refused to leave the mountain if she'd loved a dwarf within it? And if she'd left anyway, knowing that she might fade, did that mean that she preferred death to a future with one of Durin's Folk?

"Tauriel is a deserter by nature. Treachery is in her blood. I see that now." Thranduil narrowed his eyes and took another quick draft of his wine, then swept away to refill his goblet. "I gave her every opportunity to prove herself better than that, but my hopes were wasted on her," he opined as he poured. "I should have banished them from the start. It was a grave mistake to let them stay!"

"Banished . . . whom?" Kíli asked. In the space of a breath, the subject of the king's derision had jumped from Tauriel to some unnamed "them."

He watched Thranduil's back stiffen, and then the elf repeated, " _Tauriel._ It was a mistake to let her stay." The fair head tilted back for another swallow before Thranduil turned to face the much younger king, his gaze taunting.

Kíli had had just about enough of this interview. "Forgive me if I don't share your low opinion of a warrior who had the courage and the grace to defy your expectations of her and save my life. And whether she regrets our attachment or not, I _will_ go to her, and I _will_ give her the choice to return with me to Erebor."

"Then I wish you fair winds and all good fortune." Thranduil's honeyed voice dripped with sarcasm. "I can imagine no place more appropriate for her."

Kíli skipped over the implied insult again and got right to the point. "What must I do for you to tell me where she is? What can I give you? My uncle said there were gems in the mountain that you desired. I will give you anything, up to half my kingdom."

"Tempting, I must admit. But even should you bring me the gems you speak of, I cannot tell you what I do not know." The Elvenking tossed this last over his shoulder as he retreated up the steps to his throne.

In desperation, Kíli surged forward. "What of your son? Prince Legolas? He is her friend. Perhaps she confided in him."

Was that a misstep? A frozen veil seemed to pass over Thranduil's face, his expression hardening in its wake. "If she did, he failed to confide it in me."

Kíli pressed on. He'd no other choice. "Where is the prince then? I will ask him myself."

"My son has outgrown the habit of keeping me informed as to his whereabouts."

"He isn't here either?"

"I've not seen him in many moons."

Kíli's head swam, and he felt another wave of nausea, but he didn't dare ask if Legolas had left with Tauriel. He didn't think he wanted to know.

"It seems, my young King Kíli," Thranduil said with a brittle smile that made the young dwarf think of a crack in a perfectly smooth, frozen tarn, "that we both have been left behind."

It was, he realized without pleasure, the first time Thranduil had said anything that was spontaneous and from the heart.

* * *

"Camaendir? You are late," Glaewen scolded the slim young ellon who burst into her study.

True to her word, she'd taken her mastery test shortly after returning from the Shire, passed with honors, and now had an apprentice of her own, from Lórien. But he was a serious student, and it wasn't like him to be less than punctual.

"My apologies, Mistress Glaewen. I was detained for questioning."

"Questioning? By whom?" And then, "What is all that commotion?" She threw open the window, thrust her head out, and gasped at the sight. "What in Arda—?"

"It's a company of dwarves, mistress. From Erebor. They're the ones who questioned me."

Glaewen hoped her apprentice didn't notice the catch in her voice when she said, "What about?"

"They're looking for someone who used to live here, a former captain of the King's Guard. Tauriel?"

 _Sea and stars!_ Glaewen ducked her head back inside and half closed the shutters, allowing herself just enough space to watch, obscured within the shadows of her study. "What do they want with her?"

"They didn't say. But they're asking everyone who passes if they know where she's gone, so it must be important. They say she was a Nando with long red hair! Can you imagine?"

Yes, she could imagine every inch of it. This wasn't good at all! Why would these dwarves not leave her friend be after they'd treated her with such contempt, closing their door upon her after she'd risked so much for them? Perhaps Tauriel had found one shining gem among them, but he was dead and gone, and after the cruelty with which they'd repaid the elleth who had poured out her grace for one of their own, they clearly could not be trusted.

"I heard that one's their king."

Camaendir pointed at a youthful fellow with an abundance of raven-dark hair but a scant beard. Even seated on a pony, he was clearly taller than the others, and his high cheekbones, straight nose, and strong, tapered jaw made him rather more comely than most of his race. Glaewen's sharp elven eyes noticed how bright his own were, how intently they scanned his surroundings and focused in on everyone in his path. For a moment, she was reminded of how Tauriel had described her dwarven lover whilst he yet lived: _"The light in his eyes . . . I wish you could've seen it!"_

"He questioned me himself. Seemed _very_ keen to find this redhead! Told me he'd give a reward for any information leading to her discovery. I heard he was one of the original Company of Fourteen that routed the dragon and reclaimed Erebor."

 _By all the Valar!_ Hadn't Tauriel's _meleth_ been a member of that same company? What if this was a relation who suspected or had somehow discovered that one of his kin had given Tauriel a son? Tauriel had said she'd not told any of the dwarves about the babe, that she didn't want to raise her child amongst people who would shun his mother, but now their king himself was in pursuit of her. What if, when he found her, he tried to force Tauriel to return to Erebor with Norithil? Or, worse yet, what if he tried to take Norithil away from her?

 _Elo!_ What if Norithil was the heir of a former rival and now this king wished to . . . _dispose_ of him?

When Tauriel had determined to flee the Woodland, she'd sworn Glaewen to secrecy about her destination—and with good reason, her friend could see now. The onetime captain was no longer under the Elvenking's protection, and as King under the Mountain, this powerful young dwarf would have many resources at his disposal to help him track her to the Shire and make her do his bidding.

Glaewen swiftly closed and latched the shutters. She refused to break her promise to her dear friend! She must not, under any circumstances, disclose Tauriel's location to anyone, much less to those who might mean harm to her or Norithil.

And with that resolve, the healer turned to her apprentice and said as cheerfully as she could manage, " _Tolo_ , time's wasting! Let's begin our studies for the day."

* * *

kakhifi—useless, worthless, crappy

farn—enough

tolo—come (imperative)

A/N: Up next—Gossipy hobbits, an adorable Norithil, and an invitation that has Tauriel in a tizzy!


	30. Chapter 30 - A Secret Disclosed

A/N: Hi, guys! Sorry to leave you high and dry for awhile! That wasn't due to writer's block or anything but to some events in my personal life that left me in a funk. But I got past it, as I always do, and now I'm catching up on my writing. This chapter will be short but only because it was getting too long and unwieldy, so you'll have the second half as soon as next weekend. :) Thank you, as always, for all your awesome reviews, and I'm so happy to welcome aboard those of you who found this fic and followed or favorited since the last update!

Special thanks to Moonraykir for being so patient while I revised again . . . and again . . .

Rhonda: Thanks so much for dropping me a line to let me know you're enjoying this! And, yes, there's definitely more, starting right now! This fic is a long-term project, heehee. ;)

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 30**

 **A Secret Disclosed**

* * *

 _October, T.A. 2944—Erebor_

"Ah, my lord!" Balin rose from a pile of paperwork on Kíli's desk as the young ruler swept into his study like a gust of autumn wind. "Welcome home!"

"Master Balin," Kíli nodded. "My thanks for overseeing the kingdom in my absence." But he barely glanced at his chief advisor while retrieving paper, a quill pen, and an inkwell from his desk drawer.

Balin stepped out from behind the desk to let the King under the Mountain take his rightful seat. "How did you fare in the Woodland?"

"Ori, would you fetch me a—" Kíli broke off and looked about in frustration. "I thought he was right behind me." Then he bellowed, "Ori! A raven!"

Balin shook his head with a faint smile. When the lad forgot himself and barked orders like that, anyone who'd known Thorin Oakenshield could hear the echo of his lordly voice. After a moment, the elder dwarf took a deep breath to clear his mind of memories and asked, "What came of negotiations?"

Kíli's dark, cheerless gaze flicked up, then back down at the letter he was addressing. "Nothing." Balin had only a second to ponder the meaning of this foreboding reply before the returned king clarified, "No trade agreements, no peace treaties, no alliances, and definitely no right of passage through the Mirkwood. Thranduil wouldn't budge on anything, not even for Frithr."

Balin squinted, trying to imagine how their gracious, sensible, peace-loving minister of foreign affairs could have given offense. "Well, what happened? Was there some misunderstanding, an error in his translation perhaps?"

"No, Thranduil understood everything— _too_ well." Kíli grumbled in Khuzdul when he dipped out too much ink in his haste and several large blots stained the parchment. He sighed, dropped the pen, and reared back in his chair, rubbing his brow. "It wasn't Master Frithr's fault. It was mine. Thranduil and I . . . had words before the talks began."

Balin's eyelids fluttered. "Not the same words your uncle had for him, I hope." When Thorin and Thranduil had met, the leader of the Company had sworn at the elf king in the vilest of terms.

Kíli glared. "You take me for a fool?"

The elder dwarf did not, but if he was reading the signs correctly, he _did_ take Kíli for a disappointed suitor, and the hot-blooded youth wouldn't be the first to lose his temper in the wake of rejection. Balin sighed and pinched the bridge of his bulbous nose. "Did any of your words by chance concern a redheaded elf lass?"

Kíli's immediate response—the crestfallen face, the dropped gaze, the hard swallow—confirmed his advisor's fears. Since the lad didn't speak much of Tauriel anymore except when discussing the First Reawakening, Balin had clung to the hope that she'd been a passing fancy, someone the lad esteemed, certainly, but not one he still cherished the illusion of caring for in the way of a dwarf for a dam. But Kíli's exuberance on the morn of his Woodland departure and this gloom upon return were songbirds in a coal mine that warned of his enduring feeling for the elf, and Balin could no longer ignore the obvious.

"I miss her." Kíli's voice was hushed as though speaking in the presence of something both awesome and terrifying. "I've missed her every day I've been apart from her." His tone shifted, became more rushed, almost frantic, as he relived the events of his trip. "I thought she'd be in the Mirkwood, but Thranduil said she left long ago, without telling anyone where she went. For three days, we questioned everyone who makes their home in his realm, we promised a reward, but no one knew. We even stopped in Dale on the way back and asked Bard if he'd seen her, and bloody axes, he had! But that was over two years ago, and he didn't know where she went after except that she was with Gandalf—"

"The wizard?"

"Aye! And he was here within these walls not a fortnight ago, damn it to Morgoth!" Kíli slammed an elbow on the desk, then winced and rubbed his forehead again. "If only I'd known—" His voice cracked, and he blinked a few times, rapidly. "If only I'd known to ask him where she went . . . "

There was a brief pause, during which the sympathy so evident on Balin's face wrestled with his inner practicality as he considered how to help his young relation, entranced as the lad was by this hopeless obsession. "I need not tell you, m'lord, that the life of a king can be a lonely one," he began carefully. "'Tis only natural to want a companion. There are some very fetching lasses from respectable families right here in the mountain to whom I could introduce you if—"

Kíli cut him off with another glare. "I don't want a _companion_. I want _Tauriel_."

Hammer and anvil, the lad was as stubborn full grown as he'd been when he was little more than a bairn! Again, Balin could see him, silky-haired and beardless, planting his small feet shoulder-width apart, arms akimbo, refusing bedtime for anyone but Thorin: "Don't want a _story_! Want _Uncle_!" Or pushing away the helping hands of anyone but his brother: "Don't want _boots on_! Want _Fíli_!" And, as ever, this was accompanied by a sharp pang of awareness that two of the people within that memory no longer existed outside it.

Balin pondered what Thorin and Fíli would've said to this sister-son, this brother so insistent on pursuing an elf. Thorin, no doubt, would not have stood for it, would have rained down all manner of Khuzdul curses and empty threats on Kíli's head until the lad either relented or rebelled and cut ties with his family completely. But Fíli . . . Dís's elder son had nursed a soft spot for his baby brother and could seldom refuse him anything if he thought it would genuinely make Kíli happier. On the other hand, Balin wondered as he sought a middle ground between the two approaches, _would_ it genuinely make Kíli happier to hold onto what was most likely an unrequited affection for a member of a hostile race?

He tried again. "I know it can seem, when you've not met a great many lasses, that the first one you set eyes on is the only one for you, but it often isn't so. Now, I'm not saying you must commit to courting any of the lasses presently in Erebor, but you cannot decide you _don't_ want to court them if you won't at least meet them. I only ask that you let me introduce you to a few dwarrowdams of good disposition—charming, sociable, easy to get on with—"

"What about one who's none of those things? One who's hard to read, independent, and as fiery of temper as I am?"

Taken aback though he was, Balin recovered quickly. "I'm sure I could find someone who meets those specifications."

"And will she be a warrior?" Kíli pressed, eyes alight, his gestures broad, sweeping, verging on wild. "Will she have lived and breathed all her life for the perfect release of a bowstring? Will she possess a heart for adventure and travel the world at my side, no matter where the road takes us? Will she keep an open mind toward everyone she meets, whether of her own race or not, and be a voice for those who haven't one, as I pray to Mahal I can always be? Tauriel is all this and more!"

Balin fell silent. What Kíli described was indeed a tall order—perhaps too tall for a dwarrowdam to fill, literally and figuratively. But that was the trouble with the lad: he'd always been a dreamer, and now his dreams were on a collision course with reality.

Before Balin could compose a response, a dazzling grin broke over the dwarven king's face in stark contrast to the pall that had overshadowed him since his return. Heedless of his advisor's wary look, chair tipping back in his enthusiasm, he continued, "Who else could be everything that she is? What other could be better suited to me? Tauriel . . . oh! She . . . she makes me feel _alive_ , Balin! Without her, I might as well still be dead! Balin . . . " Kíli sobered, the smile replaced now by an intense look of longing as he leaned forward so that all four chair legs thudded decisively to the ground. "I _love_ her."

 _Mahal on high!_ So it was _love_ now, was it? Clearly Balin had underestimated how besotted the lad was with this Tauriel! But he recognized the look of utter adoration, the almost incoherent rambling, for once the mirror had shown him the same in his own eye, he'd heard the same in his own voice. This was much more than a passing fancy, and Kíli's feelings were likely intensified by the belief that the elf had saved him from certain death like some sort of divine Maia.

This was bad. Very bad.

Both for the kingdom, which could not afford to be torn apart again by the special hatred reserved for "elf-lovers," and for Kíli, who'd next to no chance of winning the hand of an immortal warrior.

"Forgive me for speaking out of turn, sire, but I say this not just as your advisor but as your friend and kin: You cannot seriously intend to take an elf to wife and make her a queen of Erebor and mother of the line of Durin." Balin hoped if he said the words aloud, his obstinate junior would hear the folly in them.

Instead, Kíli steepled his fingers, fixed his senior in an unwavering stare, and let his silence speak for him. It was quite the opposite of the ranting and railing he might've done a few years ago. Balin _harumphed_ to himself. _He'd_ taught the lad that tactic; he'd just not expected the lad to use it on _him_.

The truth was Kíli had matured significantly since the early days of his reign, but he'd be eighty years old soon, and it was time for him to cross the final threshold into adulthood and give up the dreams and fantasies of his youth. With this in mind, Balin said, "Mistress Tauriel is an immortal. As adventurous and open-minded as she may seem, she's unlikely to be adventurous or open-minded enough to favor a mortal with her affections, lesser still a humble dwarf. And even could you somehow succeed in winning her favor, I'm not at all certain it would be lawful for a Son of Durin to promise himself to one not of Mahal! According to the law of the Khazad—"

"By law of the Khazad, we are already promised."

Kíli spoke this so softly that Balin would've thought he'd not heard correctly if it hadn't been for the blush that crept from the young king's collar to the tips of his ears. " _By law_? You and the elf are _promised by law_?" the chief advisor repeated slowly. When Kíli looked up from beneath scattered strands of hair and nodded, his eyes suddenly black pools of pain, Balin murmured, "Oh, laddie," sank into a chair, and let his head fall forward into his hand. "Oh, laddie . . . "

 _Promised by law_ was a euphemism applied to a couple who failed to observe the proper courtship rituals to gain approval from family and community and instead sealed their pledge by lying together outside of wedlock. This course of action brought great shame on both of them, yet it was as binding as if the courtship had been completed and promises exchanged, and the couple immediately entered the betrothal period. Since they were now required to wed, like it or not, they were said to be promised _by law_. After a decade or so, most folks forgot about the shameful circumstances under which the pair had become husband and wife, and the two of them bore no permanent stigma. But for the _King under the Mountain_ to have dishonored himself so . . . and with an _elf_ lass, no less . . . ? It was unthinkable . . . _unthinkable_! Heir of Durin or not, if Kíli's behavior ever came to light, it would be a disgrace to any dwarrowdam he courted. And, what was worse, if he ever found the elf and she would have him, by Khazad law they must be wed!

At least now Balin understood why his young cousin was so profoundly attached to Thranduil's captain and so distraught at her disappearance: If he'd felt strongly enough to give himself to her in body, then the the union of the flesh had solidified the inclination of his heart. Dwarrow lads who'd not been wed could not know to anticipate the depth and persistence of this attachment, but Balin knew, and he did not have to imagine what it felt like when it was sundered; he'd lost his dear Mansûna, the wife of his youth, in the dragon fire. They'd married early, and he'd spent many more years mourning her than he'd been blessed to spend with her in life. Like most of his kind, he'd never known love after, his heart hardened to the charms of any other dam. For all the gold in Erebor, he wouldn't have wished such a fate on Kíli, who would surely long for this Tauriel for years to come and struggle to find any joy in marriage to a nice dwarven lass.

 _Tauriel_ . . . Balin felt sorry for her, as well. As far as he understood, elves were similarly steadfast in their attachments, perhaps more so if the tales he'd heard about them perishing for love lost were true. It was astonishing that she'd consented to an intimate tryst with anyone and doubly so that it had been a dwarf! Of course, not just any dwarf, Balin reminded himself, but _Kíli_. With his roguish wink, winning smile, and flair for sweet talk, if there was any dwarf who could turn an elf maid's head, it would be he. 'Twas a shame the two were so ill-matched, born to warring races! Probably it was a blessing that she'd left, perhaps seeing the impossibility of their situation.

After a last head shake, the elderly dwarf withdrew a handkerchief from his tunic and dabbed at his forehead and upper lip before refolding it into a neat square. "The pain you are feeling now, lad, is what we seek to prevent with the laws you've disregarded. Would that you'd come to me or Glóin or even Bombur before making such a rash decision! We could've told you what it is for a Khuzd to give himself to another in body, how it changes you on the inside though you can see no physical change."

"You weren't there," Kíli said, without accusation. Then he hung his head, looking less like a king and more like a smith's son from the Ered Luin after a scolding.

Balin started to counter that they'd been with him every step of the way on the Quest but then remembered that they'd not been with him in Laketown. _And of course Tauriel had._ His eyes drifted closed as he rued the day he'd allowed Thorin to leave his sister-sons behind.

"I'm sorry I didn't honor our laws," Kíli said in a low voice, head still bowed. "I know that—that lying with another before the rite of marriage isn't Durin's way, and I'm sorry I disappointed you."

"Well, now, we all made mistakes in Laketown," Balin consented, moved by the young king's contrition, "and there's no point in dwelling on them. As the proverb says, 'A stone rolls in only one direction—down—so best not to push it up a hill.' We must try to leave the past in the past." And he must try to help the lad heal from his heartache and soldier on. However, to Balin's surprise, Kíli's next words were defiant and showed no intention of leaving anything in the past.

"But I'm not sorry for loving Tauriel. I regret nothing about that. That part wasn't a mistake at all!" Kíli sniffed once, loudly, and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "And I don't love her just because I—because I chose to be with her in that way. I chose to be with her because I love her!" He rubbed at his eyes, sniffed once more, pushed his fringe of raven hair out of the way, and faced Balin with a proudly lifted chin. "I'm going to write to Lothlórien and Rivendell and ask if they know where to find her. Or if they know where to find Gandalf at least. I'm promised to Tauriel, and I'm going to keep my promise."

Balin sighed deeply. It seemed he was not getting through to the lad. After a moment, he laced his fingers and sat forward so that he looked directly into Kíli's eyes. "So, let's say you _do_ find Mistress Tauriel. What then? You've witnessed firsthand the unrest and division that can be sown by rumor of enemy influence upon the crown. What do you think the outcome would be if the perceived enemy _wore_ the crown as your queen?"

The younger dwarf sat forward also, returning Balin's steady gaze. "You remember what the elves said about me. About my . . . my strength. My resilience. I know I can protect her now." He colored, and his gaze wavered a bit. "And any bairns Mahal might bless us with."

"But they are not the only ones you must worry about. All of your people may be in danger if she comes to the throne."

"You're thinking of the riots?"

Balin gave a slow, serious nod.

"But the whole city was collapsing round them then—quite literally! Times are different now. There's food, shelter, and work enough for all. We may not be the most prosperous kingdom in Middle-earth, but by Mahal we're getting there. And some of that progress is due to our trade with the elves! Do you think anyone would risk our prosperity to start a riot over the presence of a single elf in the mountain?"

"You forget, my lord, that that single elf will be their queen. They will look to her for an ideal to aspire to in themselves. How will they be able to find that ideal in one of her race?" The chief advisor leaned into his next words to drive his point home. "Remember, my lord, what's good for the people is good for the king."

Unexpectedly, one corner of Kíli's mouth quirked up. "And sometimes, Master Balin, what's good for the king is good for the people."

Balin squinted an eye. Now, what did _that_ mean? The lad was using the chief advisor's own advice against him again!

Kíli's smile remained, but his tone became more insistent. "Everything I am and have become since the First Reawakening has been due to her. The memory of her, the hope of her, have given me the strength and the courage to live when half of Erebor wanted me dead again. And if I've made this kingdom a better place since, it's because she inspired me to do it."

Balin stayed silent, for sometimes it was better even for an advisor to listen than to speak.

"I did it for the people, too, of course. And," Kíli said more softly, tenderly, "for Uncle and Fí. But whenever my resolve flagged, I just thought of Tauriel. How she might advise me if she knew my troubles. How she'd expect me," he chuckled, "to behave. What kind of home she would be proud of. And so I built it for her: Erebor. _That's_ what I hope the people will see when they look to her."

Absurdity, if not blasphemy!

That was how this avowal of an elf's influence on the dwarven stronghold of Erebor might've sounded to many. But, Balin had to acknowledge, albeit with some reluctance, Tauriel wasn't merely an elf. She was that most inexplicable and inspirational of all creatures, a maid. And Balin, too, could close his eyes and recall a vision upon which he'd dwelt to bolster his spirits on the Quest: it was for the memory of those teasing eyes and generous lips, the sweet countenance of his Mansûna, that he'd fought through the fiery breath of the worm, Smaug, and reclaimed the mountain. Aye, the elderly advisor knew the power a lass could hold on the heart and how, with it, she could shape the will and renew the spirit, refining and transforming in the forge of her love the one who adored her.

And there was no doubt in his mind that Kíli was a dwarf transformed since he'd taken the throne. Thorin's sister-son truly _had_ made remarkable progress for both himself and the kingdom, and as Balin pondered it, he was filled with a sudden chest-swelling, misty-eyed pride. For the first time in some hundred and seventy years, Erebor was his home again. Not just a lonely mountain, a monument to what once was, but a real _home_ , full of life and light, the clang of pickaxes and the bellow of voices raised in harmony, the rush of the river and the scent of the rock (aye, that fresh, metallic scent of gold!). Against all odds, this was young Kíli's doing. And if, in fact, Tauriel was the one who'd so transformed him, then perhaps what was good for the king really _had_ become good for the people, even if they could not yet see it.

All this Balin was forced to admit to himself in the brief space before Kíli said, "I don't ask that you approve of what I'm doing. I only ask that you keep my confidence and not tell anyone else what I've told you today. I don't know how long it will take me to find Tauriel, and the last thing I need is _'Amad_ breathing fire down my neck before there's anything to light a flame over."

The chief advisor could have told his king that he didn't recommend withholding such sensitive information from the princess until the eleventh hour.

He _could_ have. But he didn't.

Kíli was full grown and able to make his own decisions, and he was, after all, King under the Mountain. A fully competent one, by Balin's reckoning of just moments before. And, moreover, if what the elves had said was accurate, he would be King under the Mountain for a very, very long time, long after Dís and everyone else in his family and all their children had gone to the Halls of Waiting. He would need a queen at his side who could inspire him not just today and tomorrow but a thousand years hence, and if indeed Balin would spare his young cousin the long, lonely latter years he'd known himself, then mayhap an elf truly was most suited to the job. In the end, Kíli might not be able to find her, and because Balin was, above all, Khazad, the flesh and blood of Durin, he couldn't wholeheartedly hope that he would. Yet, he would not stop him from trying.

Ori rushed in then, the requested raven on his shoulder and a stack of invitations in his arms, ready for the king's signature. "For the coronation feast, m'lord."

"The wha—?"

"Whilst you were gone, sire, your mother and I agreed that Erebor should host a coronation feast in your honor," Balin explained.

"But I was crowned years ago."

"Aye, and the official ceremony has always been restricted to the Khazad. But before the Desolation it was accepted practice to celebrate afterward by opening the Gate of Erebor to all the rulers of Middle-earth for thirty days of feasting and merriment. Since we were not permitted to formally announce your coronation when it occurred, we thought to do it now with invitations to the feast, which will be held next summer, when the weather is favorable."

"Ah. Sounds like good fun then." Kíli gave a short nod toward the stack of invitations. "Just leave them there on my desk, Ori. I'll have them ready by the end of the week."

"Er, might I ask that they be ready by the end of the day, Your Majesty? Time is of the essence if we want all of them to reach their destinations before the winter snows impede travel."

"I'll do my best, Master Balin." Kíli sniffed at the air. "What's that you're smoking?"

Now that the tension in the study had eased, Balin had lit his pipe and was leaning back against the cushions of his chair. "Ah, this is pipeweed," he said. "From the Shire. A gift from Bilbo. Would you like some?"

"Aye, but later. I need to finish these letters to the elves." Kíli bent his head back over his desk, then paused and looked up again, his expression thoughtful. "Ori, did you invite Bilbo to this once-in-a-lifetime party?"

"No, sire, just other members of the royal houses."

For only the third time that day, Kíli grinned. "Well, make up another invitation! Surely the hobbit deserves to clean out _our_ pantries this time!"

* * *

A/N: Sorry to have to cut the chapter off before Bilbo gets his invitation _again_ , but at least now you know where the invitation is coming from! And you will see Bilbo's reaction (and, more importantly, Tauriel's) next weekend. That's a promise!


	31. Chapter 31 - A Secret Concealed

A/N: Well, I promised you an update this weekend, and here it is! A promise kept. ;) I had hoped to update last night, actually, but I fell asleep, lol. Anyway, many thanks to all of you who left reviews last week, and even if you just added this fic to your follows or favorites, you have my thanks, too! Also, an extra special thank-you to those of you who wished me well in my personal struggles. That was really sweet and thoughtful! :)

A big shout-out goes to TMI Fairy, who requested the first scene in this chapter: Hope it meets with your approval! :)

As usual, beta credit goes to Moonraykir, who gave me some great advice on character development in this chapter. If you guys aren't aware, she has a new sequel to her "So Comes Snow After Fire" called "Spring After Winter and Sun on the Leaves," and it's a beautiful fic, so you should check it out.

* * *

 **A Promise Kept**

 **Chapter 31**

 **A Secret Concealed**

* * *

 _March, T.A. 2945—Hobbiton_

"Least now we know there's no funny business afoot 'tween Bilbo and the she-elf—Bilbo ain't the father."

"Daddy Twofoot, bite your tongue! Cousin Bilbo may forget his manners now and then, but he's no skirt chaser," clucked Peony Burrows. "And Mistress Tauriel _is_ an elf, so she can hear every word you say."

"Aw, go on! I'll bet my own spectacles she can't hear a thing from the bottom of the Hill, elf or not."

"For shame! _I_ can hear you, you old coot, and I don't want none of your indecent talk on _my_ doorstep! There are younglings about," Bell Gamgee scolded.

The three Hobbiton Hill dwellers stood outside the Gamgee residence watching Tauriel as she started up Bagshot Row, Norithil and several parcels in arms. A few other neighbors had congregated with them, as well as Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, ostensibly because she was on her way to visit a friend, although no one could think of any who called her "friend" on the Hill. Momentarily cowed by Bell's reprimand, all were silent until Lobelia's gaze slid beneath the brim of her oversized hat toward Daddy Twofoot. "How _do_ we know there's not been any . . . funny business? What makes you so certain Bilbo's _not_ the father?" she asked in a stagey whisper.

"Eh, have a look at that head of hair. Black as a coal pit! What Baggins has hair of that shade?" When Lobelia made a show of patting her ebony curls, Daddy Twofoot added, "What Baggins _born_ a Baggins?"

Lobelia glared.

"Belladonna Took's hair was quite dark, as I recall," said Rose Proudfoot, referring to Bilbo's mother.

"Not as dark as all that."

There was truth in what Twofoot said. Tauriel's son had hair as black as a starless sky, thick and shaggy, whereas Bilbo's hair was earth brown, fine and curly.

"And just look at them brows! Sharp and handsome and nothin' you'll ever see on a hobbit young'un."

That, too, was true. Among Norithil's most recognizable features were his well-defined, high-arched brows, the likes of which were not to be found among the children of Shire-folk. Bilbo's own were scant and unremarkable.

The elfling was fidgeting, and his mother soon put him down so he could skip ahead, bounding up the hill as though he were half rabbit.

"No offense to you as one of the family, Peony dear, but no Baggins has got bone structure like that, either," said Hilda Bracegirdle, for though Norithil's face at two years old—three, by Tauriel's reckoning—retained the roundness of youth, the shadow of strong cheekbones and the hint of a more angular jawline were beginning to emerge.

"Well, his mum's an elf. Maybe that's to be expected along with them pointy ears," said her brother, Hugo.

"But they say," said Lobelia with a knowing look,"that the wife of the first Isengrim Took, Bilbo's forefather, was an elf herself."

"That's a lie!" Peony burst out. "You take it back, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins! It's nothing but a vicious rumor."

Daddy Twofoot snorted. "What would one of the Fair Folk want with a Baggins anyways, then or now?" He nodded toward the stunning redhead. "I'll be a wizard's walking stick if such as her ever deigned to kiss a hair on a hobbit's foot. 'Sides, that young'un of hers laughs like it's goin' outta style. You can't get Bilbo Baggins to crack a smile like that after five pints of ale!"

"That is outside of enough!" When the denizens of Bagshot Row looked round, they saw a red-faced Bell, arms akimbo. "I won't stand for you cretins speaking ill of our friends and neighbors a moment longer! This is the road in front of _my_ _smial_ , so it belongs to me, and if you don't move along, I'll send Hamson to fetch the shirriff. Is that understood?"

Whether it was or not no one had the chance to find out.

"Well met, Bell. Peony." Tauriel's sweet voice preceded her as she closed the remaining distance between herself and the cluster of hobbits. "Good day, everyone." There was an awkward silence and then a few mumbled greetings in return. "Is something amiss?"

"Oh no, dearie," said Bell, still glaring at her neighbors, "it's just that the _children_ weren't minding their manners and making such a racket."

Tauriel glanced at the children of the Hill, who were seated in a neat semicircle by the side of the road, giggling softly as they played at jacks. "Well," she said evenly, her eyes trained once more on their parents, "if any of them are troubling you, I'd be more than happy to escort them home."

There was an immediate shift in the air, for whilst this elf had been nothing but friendly and courteous for as long as she'd lived in their midst, all the residents of Hobbiton knew she was a formidable warrior. If they'd not seen her practicing her archery or bladework on the edge of town, they'd heard Bilbo say she'd fought in the Battle of Five against _goblins_ and _trolls_. None much liked the thought of crossing her.

"And," she continued, all sweetness now, "though my son and I thank you, Daddy Twofoot, for the generous offer of your spectacles, we elves see as well as we hear, so we'll not be needing them."

Twofoot spluttered, instinctively fumbling with said spectacles. The others, too, looked abashed, suddenly wracking their brains to remember which of them had made the most offensive remarks in the past five minutes.

"Such a racket when they've got nothing to say and not a peep when they do," Bell said smugly, arms crossed over her ample bosom.

"Begging your pardon, Mistress Tauriel," several voices mumbled.

"Speak up, or she might not hear you," Peony goaded them.

The apologies were louder and more distinct this time, and only Lobelia refrained from offering hers. Instead, the impeccably dressed hobbit lady lifted her prim nose in the air and said to the little group, "Well. It _was_ a pleasure, as ever, but _now_ "—her eyes raked Tauriel in that old, comfortable tunic and leggings—"I'm afraid my son and I are expected elsewhere. Good day to you all." And then, "Come along, Lotho," she called to an unfortunately pockmarked boy, who was engaged in a heated debate with the Burrows brothers over whether or not he'd cheated on his last turn. But, their game over, the children instantly lost interest in Lotho and the argument, spotted Norithil, and, ever curious about the Shire's only elfling, flocked round him, chattering gleefully. "I don't feel well, Mummy," Lotho whined, but from the pout on his face as he glared at his peers, it was obvious he suffered from nothing more than indigestion due to eating sour grapes. With a _tsk_ of disapproval, Lobelia grabbed his dirt-caked hand and yanked him after her.

"Didn't you come to call on a friend on the Hill?" Peony asked pointedly as Lobelia flounced off in the opposite direction.

The snooty schemer halted in her tracks, and it seemed for an instant that she'd been caught out. But then she pivoted and marched back, stopping in front of Tauriel. "That shan't be necessary any longer. You may tell Cousin Bilbo yourself that I've obtained a copy of Mungo Baggins' last will and testament, and that pair of silver candlesticks he's been hoarding away in Bag End was part of Longo's share of the estate, as detailed in Section Five, Paragraph Three, and should have passed to my Otho as Longo's sole heir. He can deliver them to the Sackville-Baggins residence by Monday next, or I'll come round myself to collect them." And, with that, she flounced away again, ringlets bobbing behind her.

"She's not Cousin Bilbo's _friend_ ; she's his _distant relation_. That's not the same at all," Peony said loudly enough for the retreating Lobelia to have to pretend she didn't hear. And then when she was definitely out of earshot: "What an infuriating, snot-nosed shrew of a . . . " Shaking her head, Peony wiped her hands on her apron as if to wipe away the residue of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins.

As the remaining crowd dispersed, Bell turned beseeching eyes on her redheaded friend. "Please accept my apology, love, on behalf of our neighbors. We Shire-folk can be awful gossips and busybodies sometimes."

"Elves, as well," the elf maid said agreeably enough, though there was that about her which seemed pensive and world-weary.

"People are people wherever you go," Bell acknowledged. "Still, any of ours would give you their whole pantry and a cup of tea before they'd see you go hungry."

"I know," said Tauriel with a small smile to indicate that she really did. "And for that I'm grateful to be welcome among you."

Shrieks of delight from the younglings who surrounded Norithil were a reminder that they, at least, were still free of the suspicions and prejudices of their elders. "Norithil, what does a duck say?" asked Daisy Gamgee, who clapped and giggled when the young elfling perfectly mimicked the quack of a duck. "And a sheep?" prompted Moro Burrows, who was rewarded with a bleet indistinguishable from that of a newborn lamb. "I'll bet you can't do a wolf," was the challenge from Halfred Gamgee, and all the children gasped when Norithil sent up a howl to tingle the spine.

"He's such a dear," Bell chuckled. "Won't the two of you stay for lunch?"

"Yes, please stay," echoed Peony. "I made a fresh batch of pasties. You can take some home with you to Bilbo."

"Thank you. I wish we could, but now that the ground's begun to thaw, Bilbo's expecting my help in the garden, and the laundry won't wait another day."

"Can Norithil stay then?" cried Daisy, who must've overheard their conversation. "Pleeeeease? I'll look after him, I promise!"

"It's quite all right, love. I'll keep an eye on him myself," Bell said when Tauriel hesitated. Since the day he was born, Norithil had never been out of his mother's sight or earshot, and Tauriel's friends knew well how protective she was of him. "He won't get in any trouble. There's none to be found in the Gamgee _smial_. We're as dull as can be." Bell winked to show she was quite proud of her uneventful household. "What if we keep him just for lunch and send him home to you before tea?" That was a mere two-hour window. Surely Tauriel could part with the little tyke for such a short spell.

"We'll take good care of him, really," said Peony. "As if he was one of our own."

"Oh, I know you will. I don't doubt you. It's just that I—" Tauriel cut herself off, her polite mask descending over the previous signs of struggle. "I'm sorry, we just can't. Not today." Abruptly, she called to Norithil in her own language, and he broke away from the circle of younglings. "But we thank you for the invitation."

"Bye!" Norithil called rather mournfully over his shoulder, waving one hand as Tauriel took him by the other and, without further ado, led him on up the Hill while Bell and Peony watched them go in helpless bewilderment.

"You don't suppose she thought _we_ were telling tales about her behind her back, do you?" Peony mused.

" _Nothing_ happens behind her back, love."

One of the postmaster's messengers greeted Tauriel and Norithil as they passed, and they stopped to collect the mail for Bag End.

"Because even though she and Cousin Bilbo _are_ uncommonly good friends, I've _never_ thought he'd take advantage of her. Why, you mustn't breathe a word of this to anyone, Bell, but I've sometimes wondered if Bilbo even _fancies_ ladyfolk, you know! And anyone who wasn't born yesterday knows an expectant mum who shows up in a new town with a husband dead in battle is telling the oldest story in the book, but whatever happened between her and the father—and he must've been _quite_ the looker, judging by the little one, but some blokes are bloody wastrels and don't do right by their ladies when a young'un comes along—it's none of our business anyway, and I'd feel just _awful_ if she thought I was telling tales about her! I should've told her that."

"Not to worry, love," Bell sighed as Tauriel cast a bemused glance back at the lady hobbits before she turned into Bilbo's garden, causing Peony to blush deeply. "You just did."

* * *

"I'm not _hoarding away_ the candlesticks!" an indignant Bilbo huffed when Tauriel relayed his cousin-in-law's message. "They're right there in the front hall, where anyone can see them, which is where Lobelia saw them herself that time she came round with Peony and Bell to size you up. Anyways, those aren't even Mungo Baggins' candlesticks; they're from the Took side of the family. I haven't a clue where _his_ candlesticks are. If he left them to Longo, I can only assume that's where they went, so if Cousin Otho and Lobelia haven't got them now, that's their mystery to solve, not mine . . . Oh, thank you," he said more calmly when Tauriel handed him the mail.

As always, his eyes were drawn to the pink, puckered line on her forefinger, and he winced without meaning to. When her knife had slipped in the kitchen on that day last September, she'd assured him that the small wound wouldn't scar an elf, but six months later, if that angry-looking mark wasn't a scar, Bilbo didn't know what was.

"Uncle Bibboooooo!"

Bilbo twisted in his seat just in time to catch the ball of energy that hurled itself at him like a runaway warhorse (though a remarkably soundless one, at that) and hoisted the little chap onto his knee. He was fairly certain Norithil could pronounce his name properly by now, but somehow "Bibbo" had stuck. "Home from the market already, I see. Did you pick out the choicest lunch meats for your _nana_?"

"Yes."

"And did you help her carry them home?"

Norithil nodded vigorously, puffing out his chest with pride.

"You were a very good helper today, _ionneg_ ," said Tauriel.

"Well done! So, what did you get for us, then?"

"Chicken . . . and ham . . . and roast beef . . . and lemon cake!"

"No, not lemon cake," Tauriel corrected gently. And then to Bilbo: "He's thinking of that because Bell invited us to luncheon." She dropped back into the slower, softer register meant for the little one. "Mistress Gamgee makes delicious lemon drizzle cake, doesn't she? Perhaps she can make it for us another time if we ask nicely. Run along back to the kitchen now, _ionneg_ , and I'll fix you a sandwich."

"Don't want a _sandwich_ ," Norithil pouted beneath brows that suddenly arched like thunderbolts. "Want _Uncle Bibbo_!" And he patted Bilbo on the knee in a possessive manner.

The elfling was usually good-natured and obedient, but when this willful streak appeared, it gave the hobbit an oddly familiar yet incongruous sensation, a bit like the experience of seeing your own grandfather's portrait in the home of some distant relative you'd not met before today. As always, he gave a mental shrug and dismissed the feeling. "Now, now. Do as your _nana_ says, and I'll be there before you can say Tom Bombadil."

Ever curious, Norithil craned his neck to see what was spread out on the desk. "Uncle Bibbo's writing?"

"Yes, I am, and as soon as I'm done with this chapter, I'll tell you all about the giant of the Carrock who can become a bear and about his giant den and his giant honeybees. His walking, talking dogs, too! Would you like that?" Easily cheered, Norithil grinned, clapped, and, when Bilbo slid him to the floor, stamped his feet, nearly doing a little jig in his excitement. The confirmed bachelor merely gave a benevolent smile, content to keep to himself that it brought him as much joy to share his stories as it brought Norithil to hear them. "Right then, off you go."

When the youngling had gone, a puzzled Bilbo asked, "Why didn't you take lunch at Bell's?"

Tauriel looked away and shrugged a shoulder. "You know the laundry needs washing."

"You ought to have left the little chap with the Gamgee youngsters for the afternoon. Then you'd not need to rewash everything he knocks off the clothesline whilst chasing his 'monsters.'" As fond as Bilbo was of Norithil, he couldn't pretend that he wouldn't be more productive himself with a few hours a day of peace and quiet in Bag End.

"I can manage," was Tauriel's vague reply as she floated out of the study.

Bilbo stopped short of retorting that of course she _could_ manage in a tunic covered with small muddy handprints, but why not manage in a clean one? It was beyond him why she seemed perfectly happy to socialize with Bell and Peony but dared not let Norithil enjoy an hour or two in the company of their children. But that had been her policy thus far, and she didn't seem likely to change it. Did she worry, he wondered, that the young hobbits might be a bad influence on her son, that they were of lesser breeding, intellect, or character? It didn't seem like her to hold such an uncharitable attitude. Well, she certainly was an enigma sometimes! And it was at those times that Bilbo had to remind himself that the Tauriel he now thought of simply as his friend was also, in fact, a member of that inscrutable race called elves.

Bilbo pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration and closed his manuscript. With Norithil in the kitchen singing his heart out in Elvish, there'd be no further writing this afternoon. At least the gnawing in Bilbo's own belly made it slightly less painful to leave the chapter unfinished. He swiped a hand over his face, shook his head, and chuckled in spite of himself. There was no denying the young one had a set of lungs, so thank heavens he could carry a tune!

After a yawn and a long stretch, the hobbit turned his attention to the mail: Nothing much of interest. Bills from town, the _Shire Weekly_ , a request for donations from the Shirriffs, an advertisement for "Penny Ale Wednesdays" from the Ivy Bush, an official-looking, ribbon-tied scroll . . .

Hold a moment! _Here now, what was this?_ The parchment bore a bit of water damage round the edges as if it had traveled a great distance through the winter snows. Bilbo loosened the ribbon and unrolled it, careful not to inflict further damage.

"Tauriel," he whispered a second later. And then at full voice a second after that, _"T-t-Tauriel! Tauri—"_

"Whatever is the matter, Bilbo?"

"Oh." She stood directly behind him, eyes wide, having no doubt left the kitchen as soon as she heard him whisper her name and entered the study without a sound. "Tauriel, look at this!" His heart fluttered in his chest like the parchment he held aloft with hands that trembled in excitement. "It's an invitation to the coronation feast of Kíli, King of Erebor!" When she didn't immediately respond, he said, " _Thorin's nephew, Kíli._ Tauriel, do you think it could be true? Could he somehow be alive? The invitation, does it look real to you?"

The elf maid swallowed, and her eyes, which were very large in her face, flicked between Bilbo and the parchment several times before she reached out a tentative hand to examine it. She held it at arm's length while she read, then cleared her throat and, in a slightly hoarse voice, pronounced the seal and the signature "quite official."

"Great Smials! Isn't it the most amazing news? Why, it's practically a m-m-miracle! I went to Kíli's wake myself before I left, and I can assure you I saw him on that bier when he was very much _not_ alive. By the B-Bullroarer's club, I can't imagine how this happened! But perhaps he only looked dead because he was so gravely injured. It's been known to occur . . . " Bilbo knew he was babbling, but it was hard to care when _Kíli was alive_. However, the next second, his throat grew thick as his mind turned to another dwarf who'd fallen at Erebor. "Oh, but Thorin would be so proud! He loved his nephews more than anything, you know, and it was of the utmost importance to him to win their homeland back for them. After all he fought through to reclaim it, 'twas dreadful to think of it passing to anyone else, good fellow though I'm sure Dáin is." He blinked then, uncomfortably aware of a mist gathering over his vision, and reached quickly for his handkerchief. "Goodness gracious, Tauriel, there really is a Valinor, isn't there?"

Tauriel inclined her head but did not meet the hobbit's sparkling gaze as she handed the invitation back without comment. Indeed, she'd not had a thing to say about it this whole time. That was when a disconcerting thought struck Bilbo like the wallop of an orc's mace. Reeling, he stared at the parchment, its elegantly inked letters swimming before him, then back at his friend. "You knew," he said in barely more than a whisper, "didn't you?"

"Yes." Her eyes crept up to meet his, then fell away again. "I did."

"How? Wh-why didn't you say anything?" Bilbo asked, shaken. This vertiginous sensation, he realized, wasn't the wallop of an orc's mace after all. It was suspension from a high parapet, legs dangling with no foothold as someone he trusted with his life tried to cast him down to his death. It was the feeling of betrayal.

Tauriel still would not look directly at the one who'd taken her in and sheltered her for going on three years. "I went many places before I came to the Shire. Erebor was one of them. I arrived there to find Kíli alive and well, but he did not understand himself how he'd returned from the Halls of Waiting. He said he'd simply awakened at his own funeral with his wounds inexplicably healed. It was beyond even Gandalf's understanding."

 _"Great Smials!"_ Bilbo breathed involuntarily.

Tauriel cast a sidelong glance at him. "The wizard was concerned that Kíli and his kingdom might be in danger if word were to get out that he'd been . . . resurrected. So they made me promise that I would tell no one."

"But . . . but I was one of the Company. I lived with them for seven months. I fought alongside them, I lied and stole for them, I . . . I let them chip my plates!" Bilbo blurted. "How could they not tell me?"

Finally, the redhead turned to look fully upon him. "Oh, Bilbo, I _am_ sorry. I'm sure Gandalf was only trying to protect everyone involved, yourself included. I wanted to tell you, but I am a Silvan Elf. It is a grievous dishonor for us to break a promise."

She really did look quite distressed. Or as distressed as she ever looked. And Bilbo knew firsthand that Gandalf was a very persuasive fellow, one who could talk you into doing things that were so out of character you could hardly recognize that you were the one doing them. He dropped his gaze and nodded. But then . . . He squinted back up at her. "Why did the dwarves tell _you_?"

Her lips parted, and she made an untypically graceless, jittery motion of denial with her head. "I don't believe they would have if I'd not gone to Erebor and seen Kíli with my own eyes."

"They let you in to see him?" If Kíli's apparent resurrection had been such a well-guarded secret, it made no sense that they would have.

"Only because I saved him from a Morgul wound, I think."

And he, Bilbo, had saved Thorin once, too. Twice, if you counted saving him from the self-destruction of a battle between dwarves, elves, and men. Oh, he understood well enough why the Company could not send sensitive information by post; the condition of this invitation was evidence enough of all the hands it must've passed through. But, Bilbo wondered, had he gone to the Lonely Mountain and presented himself at the Great Gate, as Tauriel had, would his traveling companions have let him in to see Kíli, as well? He supposed he would never know.

"Regardless, it appears whatever threat there was to Kíli or to Erebor has passed," Tauriel concluded, gesturing toward the invitation.

"Well, thank heavens for that!" Bilbo skimmed it again, taking note of the details. "The first of July . . . If I left straight away, I think I could make it there by then."

Her eyes rounded. "You don't mean to go in earnest?"

Did he? Comfortably ensconced in Bag End once more, he'd thought he was through with adventuring except in stories. And yet . . . "Why not? It's not every day you get invited to the coronation feast of someone who used to be dead!" He gave a short laugh, followed by a whimsical smile. "I'd dearly love to see Kíli performing his kingly duties, looking all regal like his uncle, and I've not seen the rest of the Company in more than three years. 'Twould be such a pleasure to show them my manuscript and have a good long chat about the old days!"

"But you'd never make it in three moons' time on foot. Not to mention it isn't safe to make such an arduous journey alone."

"Who said anything about going on foot alone? We'd take Rhawon together, of course," he said, referring to Tauriel's stallion. "If he's only half as fast as Gandalf's horse, we'd still get there with days to spare." And then he added playfully, "Just think what fun Norithil would have sliding down those mountains of gold! Kíli and Fíli once told me Thorin used to go sledding in the treasury." The elf maid blanched, which was only a shade lighter than her usual shade of pale, but Bilbo knew her well enough by now to detect the change in her complexion. "Tauriel, what is it?"

"We were not invited," she said tightly.

Well, that was nothing! Bilbo gave an amiable snort. "How _could_ the dwarves invite you? They wouldn't know where to send the invitation, would they? I'm sure it doesn't mean they wouldn't be delighted to see you, and Norithil as well. But no matter, _I_ invite you. You can come as my guests." And he smiled and laced his fingers over his abdomen, pleased at the practicality of this arrangement.

But the next minute his face fell as Tauriel gave a forceful shake of her head. "Bilbo, we can't. You know we can't. Norithil is far too young yet to travel such a distance." And when he considered riding horseback eight hours a day with the youngling squirming in his arms and an endless stream of observations in his ear, he was forced to acknowledge that was true.

"Well then. It seems I'll be traveling alone on foot after all," the hobbit said gamely.

"But, Bilbo—"

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. "No, don't worry. I'll still get there before the thirty days of feasting are over. You said yourself the roads were clear of evildoers when you came east with Gandalf. Besides," he winked, "there'll be no detours in the Mirkwood this time, remember? Believe me, if I made it there and back again, I'll make it there and back _again_."

"Oh, Bilbo, please don't go!" Tauriel cried then and flung herself to her knees beside him. "I don't know how I'll manage without you for so long in a place the size of Bag End."

Bilbo drew back in surprise at this uncharacteristic display. She seemed to be sincerely troubled, yet he felt quite sure the former captain of King Thranduil's guard could capably manage a place several times the size of his hobbit-hole, and he told her so.

"But if you go, Norithil will miss you so! He'll turn four on the first of November, and you'll not be back in time to celebrate his birthday! Who will tell him his bedtime stories or . . . or get him to eat his peas? He thinks of you as his uncle. He'll never understand why you went away and left us! Please, Bilbo," she implored, seizing his hand now, " _please_ don't go!"

Bilbo took in the unshed tears glistening in his friend's eyes, the insistent pressure of her hand on his, with something akin to wonder. Flattering as it was to imagine that she and Norithil couldn't get on without him, he thought it rather improbable. Elves were a most independent race, and although it warmed the hobbit to know Norithil considered him an avuncular figure, he also knew there existed between mother and son an exclusive bond deeper and stronger than he could ever fathom. They were a matched set, like those candlesticks in the front hall, and he'd no doubt that if, heaven forbid, he failed to wake on the morrow, the pair of them would carry on together, no matter where they ended up or with whom.

And yet, there was an unaccountable desperation in Tauriel's plea. Bilbo hadn't seen her so desperate since the night of Norithil's birth, when she'd begged him to help her take the babe out to be named under the stars. Whatever it was that frightened her so about the prospect of his journey to Erebor, that fear was genuine, and in the end, perhaps the reason for her fear mattered less than the simple fact that she was afraid. Bilbo couldn't, in good conscience, make the trip if he must leave her so distraught.

The hobbit sighed, for he'd been momentarily taken by the notion that he might witness a royal Dwarvish celebration and reunite with his old friends. But, he reminded himself, the Lonely Mountain wasn't going anywhere, and neither was the Company. He could visit them another time, and maybe it would even be a more intimate, restful reunion on a less formal occasion. Perhaps, when Norithil was old enough, the three of them could make the journey together, Bilbo and Tauriel and the little chap.

"Bilbo, _please_. Don't go!" Tauriel cried again, and this time Bilbo squeezed her hand in return and said in his most reassuring voice, "All right, Tauriel. All right, then. I won't."

But as he watched the tension drain from her in an instant, replaced by utter relief, he couldn't help but wonder at the source of that tension. How remarkable it was that she had lived with him day in and day out for nearly three years yet never once hinted, even when he'd reminisced about Thorin and his family and their many adventures, that she knew one of them had survived! How puzzling that, after visiting the Dwarves of Erebor herself, she now seemed so desperate to keep him from doing the same! But, what did he know, really, of the secrets concealed in the forest of an elf maiden's mind?

And so, without meaning to, Bilbo began to look at Tauriel differently, not merely as his friend, but as the elven keeper of a forest in which there might be hiding other things he'd like to know.

* * *

A/N: Up next—Well, I'm almost afraid to say what's up next in case I have to split the next chapter in two again, but as of right now, the plan is for Bilbo to figure out another of those "secrets concealed in the forest of an elf maiden's mind." Yep, you know which secret— _that_ one! ;)


End file.
